For the most part she’s a specter, a bedtime story the gangs tell themselves to keep shit level but every so often somebody remembers that she’s meat like anyone else and then Tits Akimbo has to remind these jokers how shit gets DONE.

“I ain’t scared of you, Tits,” sneers the latest chucklehead, some hardfaced dropout from Japan. “I’m gonna leave you in so many pieces they’ll have to bury you in a tea strainer.”

“You sweet-talker, you,” grins Tits, and spits the cherry end of the joint out on the floor. A circle opens up in the crowd and the whole bar goes silent except for the yowling of the cats in the pit. “Let’s see what you learned in prep school.”

It doesn’t take very long. She’s a fucking ARTISAN with that knife. She wipes the blade clean on the wreckage before turning back to the fight. Someone else will clean up the mess, and she’s got money riding on the mean tabby. She doesn’t have to pay for a drink the whole rest of the night, though it’s not like she was planning to, anyway.

Some times it’s better to take the lumps and do your time. It’s some community service bullshit is what it is—they don’t dare touch her for anything major, but everybody gets a good yuk out of Tits Akimbo getting dinged on a noise violation.

“Who the hell is this,” drawls one of the punks to the open air. He’s got his feet up on the back of the chair she’ll be kicking out from underneath him later.

“New coach,” says the one that’s obviously the leader, all stupid hat and white undershirt. “Some community service bullshit is what this is.” Everybody groans. “Look, lady—”

“Tits,” Tits cracks.

“—uh, Tits,” she continues, momentarily thrown, “the Big Dance Off is coming up and we don’t got time to bring you up to speed. You stay outta our way, we’ll stay outta your hair. Everybody goes home happy—”

“Oh, holy balls, it’s Tits Akimbo,” screams one of them, and there’s instant dead silence.

“Oh, yes,” Tits purrs. “I don’t know jack about dancing, but I know all about winning, and we, my motley crew, are going to win.”

It’s been a good year, a damn good year, and Tits Akimbo almost hates to spoil the wow finish with housekeeping, but she ain’t gonna stand by and let anybody get away with this triflin’ bullshit. It’s the principle of the thing.

“No hard feelings,” she tells the guy in the safe. “Not after this, you hear?”

His eyes are huge, huge and white. He moans something that might have been an apology around the mouthful of bloody bills.

“Damn straight,” she says, and grins. She’s got her back to the streetlight, so he won’t be able to see much, maybe just the glint of her teeth, but that’s all right. She snaps the door closed and spins the lock. She’s already dialing, phone in the crook of her shoulder as she backs the car up into the safe.

“Who is this?” says a muffled voice on the end; Quarter-Mouth Larry.

“Shut the fuck up, you cold sack of shit,” she purrs. “One of your stooges is–” the bumper knocks the safe over and down. It’s a godawful racket. “–at the bottom of San Lorenzo hill. There’s about thirty minutes of air in the safe, so hustle.”

“The fuck you–“

“Kid, I hear you let him die, it won’t be five grand I stuff down that ruin you call a throat.” She hangs up before he can say anything else. Bam.

She wasn’t always named Tits, obviously. Her parents weren’t monsters. When she first started legging for Brick, he’d pegged her as Tits right from the get-go. Whenever he sent her out on a job, he’d tell Byron or the Jink or whoever, “Take the tits with you.” He never spoke to her directly.

When she popped him, she held on to the name. Not out of pride, or defiance or anything, but because she knew it didn’t matter what they called her. She was going to put her boot on the throat of the rackets, and anybody who can do that can be called any damn thing at all, Tits or Greasepit or Satan himself.

That first year she had trouble from the loud voices and broad shoulders in Brick’s old gang. She put them down hard, sliced ’em up and down and bathed in their blood. There were no second chances, and after a while there weren’t many first chances. She killed 37 people that first year, left them ripped nearly in half in the street in front of the copshops, and after that she was a ghost. A demon. A trigger and a knife with no hand behind it. She gave her orders and followed along behind them like the tenth plague of Egypt. In ten years, she was the unholy god of the city. Widows and orphans prayed to her, and the leggers burned incense and fat in her name in barrels in every alley in town.

It’s time to show them who’s boss, she says to herself, and takes a bead on the lead palooka’s head with her rifle. She shouts, “Welcome to hell, boys!” and drops three of them quick as thinking. Pow. “When they ask you who sent you, you tell ’em Tits Akimbo!”

“Tits, we didn’t know it was your boat, honest we didn’t,” one of them screams from behind a panel truck. “We’ll put it all back! We’ll do it right now!”

“Sure thing, son. All nice and friendly, yeah? Bygones are bygones. You just move out where I can see you. Nice and slow.”

Six of ’em stand up, hands raised and stupidly hopeful. She had a dog once with the same dumb look whenever she opened the fridge. She pretends not to see little number seven, shaking down next to a pile of pallets. “Thanks, Tits, really,” says the loudmouth, fat sweaty hog that he is with a face like a pile of puke. “We’ll let everyone know this is your operation, all the right guys, I mean, not to mess with it. You won’t have any more problems with us, I swear to you!”

“Damn right,” she growls, and drops them one by one, right through the melons, bam bam pow. The loudmouth jerks away and she pegs him through the thigh. She pulls the Webley out as she stalks through the carnage. He’s trying to crawl away, so she puts her foot on his neck and grinds his face into a puddle of brains.

“When you get to hell,” she says, playing it up for the lump pissing himself next to the pallets, “you tell ’em Tits Akimbo sent you.” Pow.