The intruder pulls me away from the closet door, believing I’m too frightened to react. But I am a woman with a plan.
One roundhouse kick to his chest fractures a rib. He reels backwards. His abdomen and chest form a ramp and I use it to vault over his head. Twisting in mid-air, I end the discussion, heel to jaw. He’s on a timeout.
His accomplice rushes in to assess the situation. My fists plough through his face. The concussion blinds him temporarily. Ax kick to the knee. He’s on the floor. I stomp on some fingers to disable a hand.
My bodyguards have finally joined us. They look shocked. (They’re also fired). I point to my wrist and say, “You were taking too long.”
I adjust my tiara and make my way to the banquet hall. Two hundred guests, most of them blood relatives, are waiting. My smile says, “Welcome to my coronation reception.” But to be honest, I am a bundle of nerves.
London, 1953 (Coronation Day)
Notes: Feminist Tuesday. Special shoutouts to Mek @ Work in Progress and the Artful Blasphemer. Thank you all very much for your support.
Photo: File photo taken on November 20, 1947 Queen Elizabeth (2nd-R) smiles while her daughter newlywed Princess Elizabeth (C) (to be Britain’s Queen Elizabeth II) waves to the crowd from the balcony of Buckingham Palace in London as the Royal Family celebrated the wedding of Elizabeth and the Duke of Edinburgh (3rd-R).
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