#cantcontainthis

I don’t care where you go—schoolyard children are all the same. When they realize their power, you best look out. That’s the story here of Juliette and a little tussle, a tête-à-tête.

That American diplomat’s son thought it hilarious that this girl carried scars from a blade, from an almost unbelievable tale. “Your cousin tried to kill you? That’s why you missed half a year of school,” he laughed to begin this year where it’s summer every day, on this archipelago far off—you call it Indonesia.

Those diplomatic babies of privilege and disgrace—they forget the slums, the disease, and the death...

...but not this girl.

Juliette would never fit their perfect pictures, but that grin’s enough to unleash an ocean they’d never respect underneath.

He compared her to the Venus one day—as if she’s insulted, but that was the day to make a point, the day to remind this boy he’ll never weather her storm.

There was no planning involved. There was no master list. There was not even the thought of a weapon or a speech. This was retribution for honor’s sake.

She had to walk away early that day filtering onto those sidewalks, taking a turn nobody noticed, knowing this boy’s route for he’s all too arrogant to see what’s right in front of him.

Those bucolic suburbs made just for the rich and elite tell you stories beyond anything imaginable, and they make shortcuts for kids walking about as if it’s those many islands they own.

Cutting ‘round a corner was that boy the same as he’d done these three years taunting our heroine, and from yet another turn he’s punched in the throat.

There she is...

Turning in that school uniform to walk away she reminds, “I won’t ask you nicely again.”

Halloween is a night for spooks, but what if it was a night for lovers and fools?

“My love,” those reddest curls questioned against brick and dumpster’s rust.

“Yes,” that darkest hair drops to the ground this day.

“Are you sure,” blue eyes flashed, freckles recede, red lips question.

“Of course,” those eyes of black pearls bat back with loving intention. “I’ve got this.”

Swinging hands these ladies wait, they check: one thirty-five.

“I love you,” the porcelain warrior’s breathless in that hat of rising reds and darkness.

“I love you,” the leather jacket glistened.

...

It’s been an hour, even superheroes grow tired.

“Do you hear,” that dark-haired vixen questions.

“Three. Two,” the red nods.

“One,” a kujang swings with the sounds (you know the tone) of a job well-done.

A satchel’s (of something-or-other) retrieved, and disappearing into the alleyways the red must question, “is it your favorite sin?”

Not completely free. This assassin kills the worst of the worst—the ones that always get away. They don’t think for a second about doing it. Get that guilt bullshit out of here.

No.

The assassin lives free of rules, free of consequence, free of the chains that weigh down justice.

Justice—she deserves to be set free.

Instead of killing the head, why not strike the body?

Stop the spread.

It’s just a thought.

“You have two options,” she reminded with that blonde hair short and bobbing ‘round that head. “I can blow the top off this whole city and make some fun Christmas lights, or you can pay me.”

“Sergeant,” this white trash washout protests. “Then you’d be killing yourself.”

“Depends, hombre,” this one stands stout and tall enough to let you know—it’s real those medals on the wall. “I set the trap, and you haven’t moved yet. You already know, and you know where the blast is directed.”

This man gulps hoping to appear as brave. “I might’ve noticed.”

“Cash.”

“We’ll all go down. Don’t pretend you’re the good guy.”

“Maybe—maybe not,” she nods. “Either way, this girl’s prepared, or have you not looked around yet?”

He saw...certain things, the items you’d want to prevent a very sudden, very explosive death, the steel cabinets, that basin in the corner, the blanket. It’s all too dark in here—thank God he heard the click. She was hoping he, at the very least, wasn’t that stupid.

“Good boy,” she smiles when walking forward, “you don’t really want to die, do you?”

“No,” he begins to shiver.

“Did they teach you this in basic, corporal? To be an arms dealer? Or, was that someone else’s idea?”

“No ma’am,” this boy turns to fear as she takes the satchel to back away. “I mean. Yes, ma’am. My captain made me do it.”

“The good news is,” this retired sergeant steps behind that workbench, “you listen. This way, you might not rot in an Indonesian prison,” she tisks, “the food’s...not brilliant.”

“Now what?”

“Wait,” she reaches for that pistol. “If you don’t move, I can get you out of this.”

“You don’t know how to disarm it,” he maintains pressure on that land mine sunk in the floor.

“Oh,” she grins. “I shouldn’t be able to. You know how it goes. Dig under it, blah blah blah, a little MacGyver, and maybe you don’t go boom.”

“What,” he gasps when that pistol whips his forehead—falling over is this man with no explosion.

“I lied, dumbass,” she drags that man twenty yards to this Jakarta street where he becomes the ugly American without a visa.