Chapter 3

Well, Dad shot me down. He refused to get between me and Mom just so I could go out looking for trouble. I was so frustrated that I nearly started to cry, but Dad's next comments saved both of us from that embarrassing situation. "Peaches, there is no need for you to ride the subway late at night if you are looking for adventure. All you have to do is to visit Central Park during the daytime and keep an eye out for muggers. Sure, you will have to work a little harder to find the thugs you want to take down, but your mother will not worry nearly as much if you tell her that you are going for a walk in the Park."

"Thanks, Dad, I never thought of that. There is always something going on in the Park, so I should be able to find something to keep me amused even if I don't find any crooks. You are a genius! I'll be careful not to take on anything that I can't handle, but the possibilities should be almost endless even at that."

"Great, I'm glad that we have that settled. Now I want to show you another little invention I have for you. This time, it is more for defense than for offense, but I know that you will find ways to use it to hurt bad guys. Come with me to the dojo."

We went in and Dad showed me what he had come up with. It looked kind of odd, but I knew that Dad knew what he was doing. The invention was a bunch of brass strips held together with belts and straps. I had no idea what he had in mind for the contraption, but he quickly explained.

"What I have here is a kind of armor that you wear over your arms and legs under a very light weight sweatsuit. Strip to your panties, and bra and I will show you what I have in mind." No sooner said than done. Dad fastened the brass strips over my arms and legs so that they did not interfere with my ease of movement, but protected me from shoulder to wrist and from hip to ankle.

The brass rods ran parallel to my limbs and were spaced close enough together so that something striking an arm or leg crosswise would hit one or more metal strips instead of my skin. The rods were made of soft brass so that a sharp edge would dig in to the brass and not slide. It was much like the brass strip along the back of the early Bowie knife to catch an opponents blade and hold it long enough for one to counter the blow.

Of course, a stroke parallel to the brass strips could still cut skin, but that was an unlikely situation. I could move plenty well enough to defend myself against that kind of blow, and I could already see that Dad had come up with another winner. Now, the only thing left to do was for him to come up with something to protect my torso. The obvious item for that defense was long shirt made of chain mail. However, there was some concern about the weight. Dad planned to look into that.

Once I was all decked out in my new armor, I put on one of my favorite sweatsuits and went through a workout routine. I was comfortable with the skeleton armor in a short time, and it was light enough in weight that it did not slow me down. I also discovered that the metal bars made even more formidable weapons from my arms and legs. Striking something with my protected forearm was like hitting it with a metal bar. The same thing was true for my legs, so I was more confident than ever in my ability to fight my way out of trouble. If I wore long trousers and long sleeve shirts, I could even wear the ensemble to school.

I spent a couple of weeks practicing with the new armor, and I began to forget that I was wearing it as far as its weight was concerned. On the other hand, I never forgot what the armor could do for me, and I felt a lot like Wonder Woman while I was wearing it. Dad warned me about getting too cocky when I was wearing the armor, but I assured him that I would be cautious. Yeah, sure!

A few weeks later, Dad took me to meet a man who made a business of tailoring chain mail for actors and for Renaissance Faire types. Dad had explained to the man what he was looking for, and the man measured me when I was wearing a tee-shirt and a bra. He already had something close to my size, and I tried it on. I was surprised at how light in weight it was and how little it restricted my fighting moves.

We were so pleased with the results of the test that Dad ordered a shirt for me long enough to run past my crotch. The man had a shirt for a small man already in stock, and he said that he could modify it to fit me. The job should take only about three weeks, so that was when we left the little shop. I was so happy that I was practically skipping along the sidewalk as we headed for the subway. Fortunately, I had just finished a growth spurt, and I was now 5'-4" tall and weighed 119 pounds. Dad and Mom had both agreed that I had probably reached my full adult size, but I was unhappy with my B-cup breasts. However, Dad had pointed out that larger breasts could interfere with my fighting, so I agreed with him and let the matter drop.

I did make a shopping trip to purchase some tee-shirts with long sleeves to protect my arms from chafing by the mail. I knew that I was probably going to be excessively warm when I wore the outfit during the summer, but it seemed like I did not have much choice. Heat did not bother me all that much, so I figured that I could get by.

That three weeks was a lot like waiting for Christmas when I was younger. Mom didn't know about the chain mail, so she was concerned with my restlessness. It lasted too long for PMT (Premenstrual Tension), but I didn't tell her what the problem was. I was afraid that I would just reinforce her idea that I was still a little girl. After all, an adult didn't fret like that while waiting for a gift.

At last, the mail shirt was ready, and Dad and I went to pick it up. I wore a tee-shirt and an outer shirt so that I could wear the chain mail home. I could tell that Dad was amused, but he did not tease me about my excitement and anticipation. The maker of the mail shirt was a true craftsman! The shirt fit perfectly, and I was tempted to wear it without the over shirt so that I could show it off. In deference to my father's sensibilities, I did not do that, but it was quite a temptation.

As soon as we got home, Dad and I went to the dojo for me to try out my new outfit. Immediately, there was a problem. I could not wear my brass strips under my mail and have it accomplish anything, and it was very uncomfortable to strap it over the mail sleeves. Of course, the leg strips were not affected by the new shirt, so they were no problem.

That was when Dad had another stroke of genius. He used some small machine screws to fasten the brass rods to the shirt sleeves. That solved the problem! This was only a temporary solution to test the theory, but he said that he could switch the screws for rivets while I was in school. We both expected that to be the solution that we were looking for.

Again, it took very little time for me to get used to working out in my new uniform, and it seemed to make insignificant difference in my fighting skills. Dad was a deadly opponent when it came to sparing, but I was anxious to test my outfit against a real opponent. Therefore, that Saturday I dressed in what I now considered to be my crime-fighting uniform and caught the subway for Central Park.

It was a wonderful day. The weather was still cool enough so that I was not uncomfortable in my uniform, yet it was warm enough to bring a large number of people out for a day in the Park. Most people were wearing light windbreakers or sweaters, and I looked perfectly normal in my sweatsuit. I jogged around the Park looking for a place that I thought would be good for a mugging, but I never saw anything. Finally, in disgust, I cut through a grove of trees toward a small pond.

Dammit, I had been looking in the wrong places! I was walking through the grove at a reasonably fast pace, but I was not jogging. Suddenly, I was grabbed from the rear by a man and thrown to the ground. I landed in a rolling posture and rolled out of his reach. I wanted to get a look at my opponent in case this was not a real attack but a joke by one of my friends.