Chapter 1

The Present... A Trash Dumpster, New York City

"Rambo to Sugar Tits. Rambo calling Sugar Tits. You awake Sugar Tits? This is your wake up call."

"Yeah, I'm awake Rambo," I groaned. Rambo's irritating, nasal whine wasn't something I wanted to wake up to. Ever! "And, stop calling me Sugar Tits."

The earpiece/microphone was coming lose from my ear and I seated it firmly back into place as Rambo continued, "Hey, you were the one who agreed that I could pick our call signs for this job."

"What was funny then isn't all that funny after 50 hours in this sweat box." I felt around in the gloom created by the tiny amount of daylight filtering in through the small air holes I'd drilled in the steel walls and pressed the glow light, the battery kind some used in closets, and a weak, red light lit the confines of the space I'd been in since mid-day Friday. It was now three hours till nightfall Sunday.

I found the bottle I'd filled from the water reservoir before sleeping and took a long drink, almost spitting the vile, warm and metallic tasting stuff out. But, I didn't. After all day in this box I needed the fluid to replace what I had sweated out. What kind'a idiot thought that doing this job in June was the thing to do? 'Oh, yeah, I was the idiot,' I thought as I used the last inch in the bottle to pour over my face. It didn't wash away the skin oil and sweat, but at least I was able to get rid of the salty crust from my eyes.

"Anyway, Sugar Tits, you wanted me to wake you early today if no one was around," Rambo paused and I could hear the crunching sound of what I guessed was a full handful of potato chips being munched on. My stomach rumbled loud enough that I was sure it could be heard the entire length of the alley my sweat box was in. I hadn't eaten solid food in five days. Just protein drinks, vitamin pills and water. Trying to pee in a mason jar when unable to sit up straight was hard enough. I didn't even want to think about trying to... Well, I just didn't want to think about that.

I'd done my thinking before sealing myself in here, so two days before closing the door behind me I'd gone on an all liquid diet with regular enemas up the ol' backside to flush me out. My colon was as empty as any human could manage. Between my diet and sweating in my metal box I was sure I'd lost at least 15 pounds. Though I certainly don't recommend this as a weight lose regimen, I'm sure there are at least some who might try this at home so here is the obligatory warning. Ladies, don't try not eating and locking yourself into a metal sweat box for three days. It fucking sucks!

I suddenly had thoughts of all the food I wanted and was about to start drooling when Rambo finished chewing the last chip and continued, "...and no one's around. Not even that cat who's been pissing on your container all weekend."

"Great. I was wondering what that new smell was." I'd lined the top part of my metal prison with the stinkiest garbage I could find. I wanted to keep people away and after days in the hot June sun, it had ripened to a nice blend of stink. I would have thought that by now I'd be accustomed to the smell, but every now and then a new stink would rise up to overwhelm me.

"Just give me a few minutes to collect myself, Rambo. Since it's dead around here on a Sunday, I thought I'd get an early start if no one is around. Keep watch and I'll call back when I'm ready."

Rambo came back with a 10-4 and an extra loud, extra long slurp of his icy drink just to piss me off. Bastard...

I lay back down and kneaded the palms of my hands against my forehead while trying to forget how much I wanted a cigarette. And food. And a shower... Especially a shower. I'm normally a two shower a day girl. I love being clean. Clean skin, clean hair, clean clothes, clean bed sheets. God, how I love the feel of just laundered 500 count cotton bed sheets on my skin. I sleep in the nude, by the way.

Glancing down between my boobs at my filthy body just made me want to cry. Yeah, I was naked in here, but, what the hell, it was too damned hot for clothes. Putting my head back down on the pile of clothes I was using as my pillow, I sighed and tried to clear my mind to think about what I was going to do tonight. Of course, with the smell of rotting garbage in my nose and on my skin, my thoughts veered to thinking of Mother.

Chapter 2

Several Years Past... Somewhere in America

Mother was a crack whore. No, that's not being truthful. Mother was a whore for anything she could smoke, drink or snort up her nose. Probably would have spread her legs for anything she could've shot into a vein except for her fear of needles.

Dear Ol' Dad was a picture in a high school yearbook. He took off before my birth so I don't know what the fuck he was like. Mother always just referred to him as, 'that fucking bastard who knocked me up and stayed around making promises just long enough that I couldn't get an abortion'.

Grandparents on both sides never cared if I lived or died. Neither set bothered to show up the night I was born. Mother's parents disowned her before I was born. They bought her a run down trailer and a lot to put it on at the edge of a town two states away and called it the end of their parental duties.

Dad's parents never even acknowledged I was their granddaughter. A one-way ticket for Dad to somewhere far, far away where Mother couldn't find him for support payments was their sole concession to my existence.

I'll tell you the truth. I have no fucking clue how I lived long enough until I was able to start taking care of myself. I can only attribute it to two facts. First, was that Mother cared enough about the welfare check she got because of me that she remembered to feed me once in a while. Second, I grew up fast. Potty training at two years old was a study in survival as the beatings got worse every time Mother had to change my diaper.

I have a pretty good memory. I'm not stupid! My earliest memories are of having my own room and a small, single bed where I spent much of my time. If Mother didn't see me, she couldn't hit me. So my training to become, and to remain, invisible started at an early age.

So, too, did my training to become a thief. After Mother and whatever man was currently my new 'Uncle' finished making strange noises at night, I knew it would be safe to make a food run to the kitchen while they were passed out on the couch or in Mother's bed. If they were passed out on the couch I didn't dare turn on a light. I just grabbed whatever can my fingers touched and took it back to my room. I once ate an entire can of beets. I hate beets. To this day the thought of beets makes me sick. Why the hell did we even have a can of beets?

Somehow, on free food from a local food pantry and clothes from a church charity, I managed to stay clothed and fed enough to make it to first grade. I think Mother lied to get me enrolled early. After all, school was free daycare to her. As for me? I loved school. Mother wasn't there to hit me. There was food at lunch time. And there were books. I learned to read while the other kids were learning their alphabet. I read everything! I went from Dick and Jane to Frank and Joe The Hardy Boys in nothing flat. When other children were trying to figure out the logic that 1+1 does actually equal 2, I'd already read my math book from cover to cover.

The other kids started making fun of me. They called me Nerd Girl and Teacher's Pet and Weirdo because I was always raising my hand to answer all the questions. After that I never raised my hand again and I was careful not to show I already knew things they were struggling to learn. I wanted to fit in. Yeah, like I had a chance in Hell of that ever happening.
I guess Mother's rep as the town whore was pretty much established by the time I got into school. Invites to other kid's parties just never seemed to make it to me. I sure as hell couldn't invite them to my place. Seeing Mother passed out in a pool of her own vomit just wasn't a thing I wanted to share with another kid. Now that was a Kodak moment.

I was halfway through second grade when I got the nickname I was stuck with for the rest of my time in school. Stinky. Like, you try and keep clean when Mother forgets to pay the water bill and the company shuts off your water for a month. I did try. There was a small stream in the woods out back of our trailer and no matter how cold it was, I'd strip down and wash myself as good as I could. But, the stream was just too small and muddy to really get my hair clean or to do my clothes in.

Since I couldn't keep my clothes clean I expanded my invisible thief rampage to include things other than just food from the kitchen cabinets. I sneaked out of the trailer at night to raid the Salvation Army drop off boxes I'd seen from the school bus for clothes. I went to the drop off area behind the Goodwill store where people left clothes and other items after hours. I got clothes and shoes that didn't always fit but at least they were cleaner than what I had. Behind the Goodwill store I got one more thing. A black-and-white TV. The screen was only nine inches and one of the rabbit ears was broken off, but after I lugged it home it was enough to pick up the local stations. Most of them. That TV was to be my mentor and guide for many years because through it I found a world that I hadn't known existed and couldn't understand.

There were people, grown-ups, moms and dads that actually seemed to give a damn about kids. Who lived in houses like I'd never seen the insides of before. Mothers who were called Moms, who cleaned and did laundry and made food that didn't come from a can. Men who weren't called Uncles and who stayed around longer than a couple of months. It was all so weird. I'd put the TV on the floor and close my door and turn the volume down very low while I read a book. I'd just spend hours trying to understand.

I watched every show I could and read every book I could check out of the school library. TV crime dramas and The Hardy Boys led me to novels and internet searches in the school library. I began to get a small understanding of how crimes were solved. Little things like fingerprints. I'd never known I had fingerprints. I got a pair of gloves that fit. DNA stuff from blood or hair left behind. I got a stretchy cap to bunch my hair into. The Summer I was seven or eight, or maybe I was six or nine—Mother was never too clear what year I was born and got really mad when I asked—I expanded my invisible thief persona to include breaking into houses.

On the other side of the woods behind my trailer were houses like I'd seen on TV. With school out I had lots of time to sit in the bushes and watch a house until I was sure everyone had left for work and the house was empty. After several days of casing the joint, another something I learned from TV, I'd pick a day to go to the back door. I had a small pillow with a city skyline on it that someone had donated to Goodwill. I'd put the pillow against a pane of glass and then carefully lean my elbow against the pillow until the pane of glass broke. The pillow muffled the sound and protected me from being cut and leaving that DNA stuff behind.

After listening carefully to make sure no one was in the house and coming to find out what the sound was, I'd pick a few shards of glass out, reach in and unlock the door. Once in, I never took much. I took any money and jewelry I found 'cause I could spend the money and hide the jewelry in the woods so my Mother couldn't find it. Cans of food would go into a backpack. I couldn't steal clothes because then the cops might start looking for a kid.

I really couldn't steal anything else. I sure as hell couldn't take laptops and things like that because if Mother found them she'd take 'em to the pawn shop. I'd seen one show on Law And Order where the cops broke a case wide open when a thief tried to sell things to a pawn shop. Pawn shops were bad, bad places. So I ate the food, spent the money on things like clothes that fit and hid my stash of rings and jewelry in a coffee can I buried in the woods.

I'd watched another cop show where thieves were caught after trying to do the same thing in one area once too often. So I began to go to other neighborhoods that had houses that backed up against woods where I could hide and case the joints. For the first time in my life I had money to spend on things. I had money to go to a fast food place and eat hamburgers and fries and chocolate milk shakes.

Once I found a bundle of cash in a sock drawer. Five hundred beautiful dollars all in twenties. I had new notebooks and pencils for school. A new coat that fit from Goodwill. I was able to sneak out of the trailer and eat at Burger King for the rest of the Summer and on into the school year. I stopped my petty crime spree for quite a while and lay low until the heat was off.

As I got older, school was still my favorite place. Even if I never had friends who sat with me at lunch and was never invited to parties, school was away from Mother. Before the first week was over I'd have read all my textbooks from cover to cover and begun trying to read everything in the school library. But I never raised my hand to answer questions and if the teacher did call on me I made sure to give stupid answers most of the time. Stinky had to stay invisible! Being invisible was a good thing.

Once when I was in fifth grade, one boy saw through my invisibility. Picking on me until I'd had enough. I checked out the heaviest book I could find from the library. That recess period when he picked on me I waited until no teacher was watching and flattened his nose with the book. I hadn't counted on there being so much blood. I was trying to wipe the blood off the book onto his shirt when a teacher came running over. I claimed it was an accident. He claimed it was on purpose. I got a three day suspension that I spent in the woods. After that no kid picked on me. I was invisible again.

I always made sure my clothes were ready for the next day before setting my little wind up alarm clock. In the morning I'd take a quick shower, crossing my fingers that it wouldn't wake Mother, dress, grab my bookbag and be at the school bus stop fifteen minutes early like my bus driver said we should be.

That was my life until I was eleven. Or maybe I was ten or maybe twelve. I could never find my birth certificate to make sure! In the Summer I'd hit houses for money, jewelry and food. In the Winter I'd go to school. No matter the season, I spent as much time as possible away from Mother and Uncles. I was doing okay. And then I was maybe eleven, maybe ten, maybe twelve...

Chapter 3

The Present... A Trash Dumpster, New York City

I came out of my heat and smell induced nightmare shivering. I tried very hard not to think about parts of my past. I sometimes threw up afterwards. More water to loosen the lump in my throat and, "Rambo, what time is it?"

"Two hours until dark, Sugar Tits. I was about to call and see if you'd gone back to sleep."

"Nope, just daydreaming of a better place. Anyone around? I'd still like to get started a bit early today in case there's any little glitch later on."

Rambo didn't answer for several seconds and then that whining voice in my earpiece again, "All is quiet, Sugar Tits. Just took a good look around through the binoculars and no one is anywhere close to you. Close circuit TV shows Frick and Frack seated at the front kiosk. One returned from his rounds about ten minutes ago. Still another fifty minutes before one goes around again."

Once an hour a guard would walk the building turning keys into his time clock thingy to show that the round had been made. One key was in a little box that was located just outside the door of the room I hoped to break into shortly.

"Okay, then, Rambo. I'm starting early, but let me know the second a guard begins his rounds. I'm so close to being in I don't want to make even a sound while he may be near."

"10-4, Sugar Tits."

"I swear to God, Rambo. If I didn't think you'd enjoy it so much I would really hurt you later," I muttered as I un-dogged the small door to my side and slowly slid it open to one side. The only response I got was more crunching of potato chips and a long slurp of some icy drink that caused my stomach to growl. Bastard...

Scrunching in my confined space I looked out the door and saw what I knew I'd see. My trash dumpster's secret door was only four inches away from the wall of the building I was breaking into and the piece of cardboard I'd glued to the wall earlier was still in place. Pulling it away from the wall I looked at the hole I'd burrowed through solid concrete with satisfaction.

First thing I did was to take a stiff rubber rod and made sure it fit sideways the length of the almost three foot tunnel in front of me. Every piece of equipment I had in the false bottom of my dumpster had been carefully measured. The dumpster door I was working through had been carefully measured so that said equipment would fit through. The tunnel had to be large enough, too.

Satisfied about the dimensions, I put on my protective helmet with face guard and then checked every inch of the long, rubberized glove I put on. One crack in the rubber and... Well, my skin was very precious to me and I made certain there were no holes or cracks before carefully picking up the glass bottle from its holder. Setting the bottle down, with my gloved hand I worked the handle that forced air into it to pressurize the contents.

Picking the bottle up and making sure I didn't come close to any surface that might crack the glass, I extended my gloved arm down the tunnel and pressed the trigger. With a quiet 'hisss', a film of moisture began coating the concrete wall at the far end of the tunnel and I played the nozzle back and forth until every inch had been covered.

A thin haze began to form where the liquid had hit concrete. I put the bottle down carefully and, holding my breath, brought my gloved arm back. I used my other hand to unhook the water tube attached above the sliding door and sprayed a film of water over the rubber to make certain any residue of the acid I'd used was neutralized. Only then did I bring my arm all the way in. Closing my sliding door, I expelled the breath I'd been unconsciously holding.

"Rambo, first coat is on. Let me know when time's up."

"Will do. You know, you could wear a watch and not bother me with things like this."

I never wore a watch on a job. If I wore a watch I'd spend all my time looking at the time instead of getting on with the task at hand. Rambo knew that so I didn't bother answering. Instead I waited and wished I'd brought my smokes with me. I was really into nicotine withdrawal. I'd left them behind to remove any temptation. A stray wisp of smoke at just the wrong time might cause a fucking concerned citizen passing by to call the fire department to report a trash dumpster on fire. World would be a much nicer place if assholes minded their own fucking business. At least I could smoke a fucking cigarette!

Instead of smoking I inspected my glove again. No signs of any holes or cracks. It wasn't long before Rambo came back with, Time's up. I put on the glove and helmet with face protection and slid the door open. Only a stray wisp of fog remained and extending my arm with the water hose, I played the stream of water to cover every single inch of the wall that the acid might have touched.

This was some heavy duty acid shit Rambo had come up with, but I won't tell you what it is. Do your own fucking homework if you ever want to tunnel through concrete. I can tell you one fact. Acid plus water produces heat and that fact was at the heart of the cracking and crumbling of the wall in front of my spray.

After making sure every damned part of the wall had been sprayed, I put away the water hose and pulled out my rubber squeegee and rubbed it against the wall up and down. As before, I was rewarded with a cascade of now loosened concrete pebbles that I pulled to the lip of the tunnel. Collecting them in my gloved hand I pushed my arm up a small hole in the 'roof' of my hidey hole and tossed the pebbles on top of the garbage bags. I was another quarter of an inch closer to being inside.

I measured the sides again to make sure my equipment would fit and after another radio check to make certain the coast was clear, repeated the acid treatment. Counting down time while a guard made his rounds, I estimated that I would be through just about as night fell.

And I was! Watching the last bit of wall fall away to reveal a large, dark room beyond, I felt a sense of accomplishment to rival Neil Armstrong's first step onto the moon!

Some people think that three feet of concrete will keep me out. Silly, silly people.

Am I good or what?