Hank Venture, Babe Magnet - 5

The saying goes: "No good deed goes unpunished." At nineteen Hank Venture hadn't heard that saying and was too young, too naive, despite having a harrowing life, to believe it. Which is why one fine August day he was quietly driving his hover-bike down a seldom used dirt lane, past a rude boat-launch and into a swampy part of the State Park to inevitably make matter worse between him and a certain young lady.

He was using the hover-bike because his other choice, the X-13 atomic powered car, at eight tons, was way too heavy for the soft soils of the swamp. The hover-bike was a little large than a Schwinn, could go over any surface - ever water - and had a top speed faster than a man could run. Also it was perfectly quiet which is a good thing when trying to sneak up on a woman armed with a century old .45 Colt Peacemaker.

Pass the old boat-launch the road became just a trail of flattened grass that wound around the higher points of the land until it came to an old oak tree. A rectangle of dead grass and an oil stain showed when an ancient truck was usually parked. Hank was relieved to see that it was gone. It mean that the girl, Jill O'Lantern, was away scavenging tin cans from the highway, her sole source of income.

Hank parked the bike in front of the small Airstream camper that was her house, turning the hover-bike around before he dismounted so that it would ready for an emergency get-away if need be. The Hover-bike was a spindly U-shaped frame with handlebars and a large headlight mounted at the front. A bike-seat sprouted from a pole in the middle and underneath cross-bars, mounted front and back supported cone-shaped devices that held the vehicle aloft. The cones would shift from side to side, back and forth to maintain the bike's balance, accelerate it and guide it into turns. It was the invention of Hank's grandfather, Jonas Venture, the great inventor and explorer. Hank, at this point in his life would have loved to have a real motor-cycle, one that could tear down the highway at 60-90 miles an hour but his father, who obsessed about him getting hurt, would never allow that.

The Airstream camper was so old that the aluminum surface had oxidized to a dull grayish white. A roof had been build over the side with the door and under its shelter were piles of stuff, some covered with tarps, others out in the open. A drum of kerosene sitting on a trestle gave a pungent aroma to the place. A door on some sawhorses made a table next to the screen door on the camper.

Hank paused to listen at the door. When he was confident that he heard no one inside he opened the door and stepped in. The camper looked the same as it did the one other time he had been there, old and grimy but with some effort to maintain appearances. There was a tiny kitchen at the rear of the camper. A fold-up table and a built in bench in the middle and a bed filled the front. The bed was made but covered with lots of stuff. Hank suspected that this had been Jill's father's bed and that after his death she had been reluctant to claim it as her own.

He didn't pause long. He laid the shopping bag he was carrying on the bench seat where it could be seen, thought about leaving a note, decided against that and left. He was feeling good about himself as he made the highway and cruised at a dignified twenty miles an hour home. He had wanted to help the girl, even though she had taken into her mind that he was responsible for her father's death and wanted to kill him in turn. He thought he had, by giving her something that she sorely needed, tempered her anger at him.

He was sorely mistaken.

[]

"Good Afternoon. Welcome to All-Meat Patty," Hank Venture said, taking a quick glance at the script lying next to his cash register. "How may we 'meat' you up today?" It was his first day taking orders and he was still nervous about getting everything right.

The customer, all three hundred pounds of him, ordered a double-patty, extra cheese, large fries and a diet cola. "As if that would balance out the rest of his order," Hank thought as he pecked in the order on his cash register. The printing on the numerous keys on the panel was half wore off so Hank had to guess at the buttons to push.

He set out a tray, took the man's money and counted out his change. The human road-block shuffled down to the pick-up end of the counter. Hank took another look at the script, pasted a smile on his face and looked up at the next person in line.

He had barely got out "How may we meat you up," when - wham! - he was smacked in the face. The missile was soft, plastic wrapped and not too heavy. Still he flopped to the floor, not so much from the impact but out of training. Hank scuttled up against the counter for safety. He tried to recall exactly what had happened. Hank had a momentary impression of a slender - no, skinny - girl in a large, worn, green dress with long, black shiny hair. A price tag seemed to be hanging from the hair. Again this was part of his training, the ability to recall in detail a scene he had just seen. He had the impression that she looked familiar but what stood out was how her face had screwed up in rage the moment she had seen him.

Oddly, that happened a lot to Hank Venture.

"I don't want your charity," the girl screamed over the counter, then launched another projectile at him. This had a cardboard backing that stung like hell. "And I don't want your pity!"

The voice was familiar. Hell, Hank realized, it was that crazy girl trying to kill him. He wasn't sure why she was throwing things at him, but he guessed she had used up all her ammunition. Next would be the Colt .45 Peacemaker, an antique revolver as big as she was. The particle board walls of the service counter wasn't going to offer any protection from that cannon!

With a scream half terror and half fear Hank vaulted over the counter and flung himself on the girl. They went down in a heap, rolling and thrashing on the floor, knocking over tables and chairs. As he wrestled with the girl, who was incredibly strong for her slender size, Hank wondered where her gun was hid.

"Venture! What the hel - heck are you doing? Get off that customer this instant.!" It was Mr. Latimere the store manager.

"She has a gun," Hank tried to explain as he climbed off the girl and stood up. "She was trying to kill me."

"I don't care if she was the Queen of Sheba, you don't attack customers in All-Meat Patty. I've had it with you, Venture. You're fired. Get out of my store and don't bother coming back. I'll mail your paycheck to you!"

"What?" Hank cried, scowled, then started unbuttoning his brown and grey company shirt, throwing it on the counter. "I don't need this crappy job," he declared, pulling down his t-shirt and stalked towards the store's entrance. He turned at the door and added. "I've meet the Queen of Sheba. She's like a million years old and stands four feet tall. She's a nicer person that you'll ever be!"

Mr. Latimere watched him leave for a moment, shaking his head at another of the boy's weird and incomprehensible comments. Then he turned to the girl picking herself off the floor.

"I'm terrible sorry for what has happened, miss. I don't know what was the matter with that boy. But he won't bother you again here. As a small token for our regret can we offer you anything from our menu - gratis?"

One of the other order clerks came from behind the counter and handed the girl the items she had thrown. He blushed as he held them out to her. "Your - uh - things, ma'am."

The girl grabbed them and stuffed them back into the shopping bag she had been holding. "Thanks," she mumbled, then turned and hurried after Hank.

The corridor was long, wide and high. It ran along the back side of one of the anchor stores of the mall, ending next to the truck docks, which was why the corridor wasn't used much. Another entrance opened half way down to a more congenial part of the parking lot. A nail salon, a wig shop and a couple boarded up storefronts filled the place alongside the All-Meat Patty. The only reason the restaurant survived in such an out of the way place was its low prices and seated dining. Hank was taking long, angry steps towards the mail concourse. The girl had to quicken her pace to catch up. She was a little out of breathe when she finally fell in step with Hank. He tried to ignore her for a minute but with an exasperated snarl, stopped and turned on her.

"What is your problem?" he demanded. "Why are you following me? Haven't you done enough damage already today? I lost my job because of you!"

"I thought you said you hated that job," the girl said, confused.
"Yes, it was a crappy job, but I needed it. It gave me walking-around money for the first time in my life. And it got Pop off my back. For the last year it's been is 'Hank, got a job', 'Hank, get a job', 'Hank get a job.' Well I got a job so he had to shut up. And in another month or so I'd been sent to management school, then I've be the one giving orders, not taking them. I could even have opened my own store - Hankco! The future was all mine. But you had to come in and ruin it!" He stopped and seethed for a moment. "And what’s the deal with this disguise?" he asked, ripping off the black wig to reveal her blonde hair underneath. "Elvira?" he asked, referring to the wig, "What did you think this was, Halloween?"

The girl snatched the wig out of his hand and stuffed it back on her head. "I wanted to talk to you," she announced, " but I figured you'd freak out if I showed up in my regular clothes. Who knew you'd freak out anyway."

"You were throwing things at me!"

"I just wanted to return this stuff," she said, slapping the shopping bag at Hank. "But the minute I saw your face I just got so mad...”

“This stuff's for you." Hank said.

"I don't want it."

"You need it."

Now it was the girl's turn to be exasperated. "I've been taking care of myself all my life," she said. "I don't need your charity-"

"It's not charity." Hank insisted.

"And I don't need your pity-"

"It's not pity."

"Then what the hell is it?"

Hank was stumped for an answer. He did pity her, his gift had been charity but how to convince the girl otherwise.

"It's Enlightened Self-Interest!" he declared, remembering a lecture from his father.

"What the hell is that?"

They had resumed walking and had entered the concourse. The place was large, airy, echoing a bit. There was a lot of light from a clerestory running down the length of the concourse. Near-by was a waterfall filling a reflecting pool than ran down half the length of the concourse. High-arched bridges crossed it at intervals. A railing attempted to keep kids out of the water. Seats were built into the edge of the pool. Hank wandered over to these and sat down. The girl sat down a couple feet away. She put the bag next to Hank.

"It's..." Hank waved his hands in the air as he tried to remember his father's explanation. "It's when you do something for someone not because you're being nice to them but because it's good for you."

The girl snorted.

"No, seriously. Look, eventually you're going to be arrested.

"If," the girl interrupted.

"No, when!" Hank corrected. "And when you are the police are going to make you take off your clothes and put on prison garb. And when they do they're going to find out that you don't have any underwear...."

"I do, too!"

"You call that ratty, ripped up thing you were wearing when we went over the waterfall underwear? The thing is, when they find out that you don't have any decent underwear,  I'll be known as the kid menaced by a girl who can't even afford clean underwear. I won't be able to show my face in the Boy Adventurers Club anymore. So I bought you some underwear so I wouldn't be embarrassed when you get arrested. So you see, it's not charity or pity or any of that stuff, it's Enlightened Self-Interest."

"Bull."

Hank didn't bother to argue her assessment. He puahed the bag with the pack of six plain white junior miss panties and pack of four white bras, size 28b closer to the girl. "Did you at least try them on?" he asked.

"Why would I try on underwear that I'm not going to keep? Besides, if I open the packages you couldn't take them back for a refund."

"I can't take them back! Do you know how hard it was shopping for these clothes? I had to explain to a nice sales lady why I was standing in the middle of a room full of-" he whispered - "lingerie, fingering panties. And then there was all that time spent trying to figure out what size you are. I had to point to other people and say you were larger or smaller than they were. And guess at your cup-size. I didn't even know bras came in cups."

"They do?" the girl seemed as surprised as Hank.

"I couldn't go back to her and ask for a refund. It would be to embarrassing. If you won't take them I'd just throw them in a dumpster - hey, that's an idea. I throw them away in a dumpster then you can reach in and pull them out. Then it wouldn't be a gift from me, it would be, you know, dumpster diving!"

"You're weird."

"People always say that. After a while it hurts."

"I've never been in a lingerie store," the girl said after a long silence. "I was wearing my Ma's hand-me-downs."

"That's what I figured. Why?"

"I don't know. Maybe Pa was too embarrassed to do what you did. Pa was a great man and I miss him every day I live but..."

Hank looked at her then quickly looked away. She seemed to be tearing up and he didn't want her to know that he knew.

"Pa always wanted a son, and he treated me like a son, which was fine by me. You can't live in a swamp without needing to know how to hunt and fish and trap and stuff like that. I enjoyed it, enjoyed doing anything with my pa. He taught me to read and do sums. But he never went inside a clothing store to buy me underwear that fit.  Or tell me anything about being a girl. I envy you for having a mother." she concluded.

"I never did," Hank told her. "There's a woman who comes around and claims to be Dean and my mother, but she's crazy. It's always been just me, Dean and Pop. And Brock. But no one would think of Brock as the mothering type. He used to be our bodyguard before Gary."

“He never told me nothing about being a girl, and then he died.”

"He killed himself," Hank corrected.

"Don't remind me."

"Sorry."

Hank sat quietly, not trying to hear the girl snuffling beside him. He wondered what a man was supposed to do in a situation like this. Should he pat her on the shoulder and say, "there, there." Should he give her a hug. Should he offer her a handkerchief? Or should he pretend not to notice her crying. He chose the last. After a time she gave a big sniff and exhaled deeply.

"Anyway, I wanted to give them back," she said, pushing the bag back towards Hank.

"I know you don't want them, but would you at least try them on?" Hank asked.

"Why?"

"I'd like to know how well they fit. I went to so much trouble guessing at your size and all that I'm curious how close I came to getting your size right." Call it scientific curiosity.”

"You are so weird,” the girl said, but more as an observation than as a complaint. “You want me to try on your underwear right here?" she said indicating the open concourse.

"No. No. There's a lady's restroom down that wing of the mall. You can try them on inside and tell me when you come out how they fit."

"And then you're just going to throw them away?" The girl looked at the bag suspiciously, looked at her sandaled feet for a bit. Her feet were brown, scarred and heavily calloused as if wearing shoes was something she didn't do often. She stood up. "I can't believe I'm doing this," she said, picked up the bag and marched off in the direction Hank had pointed.

The boy trailed after her.

[]

She took longer in the restroom than Hank expected. He was about to peek in and ask if she was alright when she finally came out. "How do women put those things on," she grumbled, tugged at something under her dress. "I was forever trying to get that thing fastened." She said,  "and how do women put up with wearing them? It feels so ... restricting."

Hank had sometimes wondered about that himself.

"But does it fit OK" Hank asked.

"How do I know? I've never worn this stuff before."

What about the panties?" Hank persisted. "Too tight, too loose?"

"Oh, I guess they're alright." After a moment the girl added, "it is kind of nice to walk around in a pair of panties that don't threaten to fall down all the time."

"What about the bra?"

"It's just weird having something strapped around my chest like that. What's it for?"

"To keep your boobs from sagging, I think."
"Like I have enough boob to sag."

"You've got a lot more boob than some. I guessed you were like a B cup. It's not too big, is it? or too small?"

The girl unconsciously felt her breasts, plucking at something under her dress. "No they seem to be alright."

That she was still wearing the underwear he’d gotten her was encouraging. Maybe she’d keep his gift after all. "Great! You don't know how happy that makes me feel," Hank exclaimed.

"And you don't know how weird that makes you sound," the girl reminded him. "I'm getting out of here before you ask me to do any more weird stuff."

She turned to walk away, still holding on to the bag with the remaining lingerie. She hadn't taken a  more than a couple steps when she was knocked down by a dozen men in dark clothes converging on Hank Venture.

"Don't let him escape," someone called needlessly.