Cooked Goose

of rough brown twine and hang it around the pervert’s neck,” Savannah told her rapt audience of a dozen women who had assembled at the local library to learn the art of self-defense. “And than usually gets the creep’s attention. He’s not likely to offend again.”
    Savannah laughed and her listeners echoed a few nervous giggles. “But here in California ,” she continued, “y’all are a mite more civilized. You catch ‘em if you can, lock ‘em up for a spell, then let ‘em go to do it all again. And that, ladies, is why we need classes like this one.
    The group had arrived an hour ago at the library, their clothing and hair all neat and tidy, their faces arranged in pseudo-nonchalant expressions. Unsuccessfully, they had been trying to hide the fact that they were scared to death of the latest threat to their community.
    Like all Southern Californians , they took in stride the earthquakes, mudslides, occasional riots and seasonal brush-fires. But the serial rapist who had been ravaging San Carmeli-ta’s women had them afraid to run to the grocery store for a loaf of bread. Only the bravest had ventured outside after dark to attend the meeting at the library.
    And after an hour of instruction by Savannah and Tammy, an hour of throwing each other around on the mats spread across the carpeted floor of the Children’s Comer, an hour of being told what to expect if they were attacked, the group was a little mussed, a bit disheveled, but in their eyes they had a bold gleam that Savannah welcomed. It told her they were less inclined to become victims than when they had first arrived.
    She was moderately satisfied with her results so far. It was a much more productive way to spend the remainder of her fateful evening... having been dismissed from the mail decoy gig. After a debacle like that, she would have normally gone home to bury her sorrow in a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream.
    “Walk with your head high,” she told them, “your spine straight. Walk with an attitude, girls! A rapist is looking for a victim, not a combatant. We know he’s a lily-livered chicken shit or he wouldn’t be attacking women.”
    From the corner of her eye, Savannah saw the research librarian seated at the desk. She winced at the colorful terminology. Savannah ignored her. She had some important points to make, and she had her audience’s full attention. “He’s a predator who preys on the weak,” she said. “Don’t give him a reason to think that you’re anything other than a raging bitch. A bitch may not be the most popular member of the P.T.A., but she isn’t as likely to be attacked as a ‘nice girl.’ Sad, but true.”
    A teenage girl, who appeared to be about fifteen or sixteen and had introduced herself as “Margie,” raised her hand. Savannah was a little surprised; Margie hadn’t contributed a thing since the class had begun. She had sat quietly on the mat, refusing to join in the physical exercises. The girl could only be described as “bristly,” due to a dozen unconventionally located body piercings, spiked orange and green hair, and a prickly adolescent attitude.
    “Yes, Margie?”
    “What do you think he’s like... this Santa rapist guy?” The fear in the girl’s voice belied her bold appearance and expressed the general sentiment of the room. This was the first time anyone had mentioned the real reason they had all signed up for this class. Sure, they were interested in self-defense, but if a maniac hadn’t been terrorizing the community, they would have probably all been home watching television sitcoms.
    At least the Santa Rapist had jarred them out of their suburban complacency.
    “How about that, Tam?” Savannah turned to Tammy, who was sitting behind Margie and the other students on the mat. Having demonstrated her best throwing and ball-busting techniques, Tammy had reverted to being a “girlie girl” and was brushing her long blond hair. Momentarily nonplussed to be caught primping, Tammy quickly ditched the brush, shoving it into her pocket.
    “What about what?” Tammy asked.
    “What about our friendly neighborhood serial rapist? Can you give us a profile on him?”
    Savannah watched, amused, as Tammy’s mental disk drive whirred. The young woman was living proof that looking like a blond airhead didn’t make you one.
    “Generally speaking,” Tammy said, “a rapist is an emotionally immature individual, socially inept, with a deep inferiority