Vile Bitch & 1/2

When you're not too bright you have to rely more on brawn than brains. At least I do. I never had a chance to get into college; in fact I, Ryan Allison, was lucky to get out of High School. My family was poor, and I'm just OK looking as far as facial features are concerned, so all I've ever had going for me was a big dick and big biceps, the first genetic, the second mostly because of hard work. I never had good enough grades to even participate in sports in High School except my fifth year (that's right, it took me five years to graduate) when the school wrestling coach took me under his wing at the start of the school year and shamed, cajoled, and threatened me into becoming eligible for wrestling.

Since I'm six feet three and weighed two hundred sixty pounds I wrestled as a heavyweight. Despite the fact that I had never wrestled competitively before, because all my talent is in strength, once I learned a number of basic moves I got to be good enough to point me in a career path. When the state tournament came around I came in fourth in the top division of the populous state that I grew up in.

I became a body guard. Well, actually I started out as a bouncer, saved enough by living at home (and paying rent to my parents) to take a number of weapons and crowd control courses, and then got a job as a member of a team of bodyguards for a high level show business type. I moved my way up the food chain until I got to be the only bodyguard for a minor sports celebrity after beating the shit out of two guys that tried to attack my previous employer.

When the minor sports celebrity that I was working for stopped doing high profile work -- that is, when he retired -- I started looking around for another job. Despite the fact that I had a good resume and recommendations and almost six years' experience (I was twenty five then) good bodyguard jobs were scare. I did find out from a headhunter who contacted me that there was one job available -- one that apparently no one else wanted despite the fact that it paid twenty percent more than I had been making.

The job was being the only bodyguard for a female performer who -- in all honesty -- defies verbal description. Her stage name is "Vile Bitch & ½" and her real name is Carleigh Cavanaugh (although I didn't get her last name until much later); I'll refer to her as either "Vile Bitch" or "Carleigh," depending upon how she's behaving at the time.

In her act Vile Bitch sang, played electric guitar, contorted her body, rode a unicycle, made weird things appear and disappear, and performed all sorts of lewd maneuvers. Her act can best be described as a combination of black metal, grunge, bizarre magic, and Circus Soleil. Kind of a Shanklin Freak Show meets Lady Gaga meets Lady Angellyca meets Ariann Black meets Gabby Douglas (you'll probably have to look some of those up to see who they are, but I can assure you that the combination is lethal)!

I went for an "interview," if you can call it that, with Vile Bitch's "manager," and then the woman herself. The manager was a milquetoast little guy named Harold who had a good financial head on him, but was obviously completely subservient to Vile Bitch. He offered me the job after looking at my resume and talking to me for five minutes, "Subject to Carleigh's approval, of course," he squeaked out after making the offer

When I met Vile Bitch I tried not to laugh, cry, or gag. She was twenty years old, tall (probably six feet and with her heels on as tall as I was), thin (probably no more than 135 pounds) with big boobs, and with hair so distorted that I had no idea what color it was or even if it was real. She had tattoos over most of her visible skin except her face and neck, her eyes looked like a snake's -- no shit, they really did with thin vertical slits for pupils -- and her face, even though she wasn't dressed for a performance, had so much makeup on it that you couldn't tell if it was good looking or not.

When Harold and I went to meet Vile Bitch she had just gotten off a stage where she had rehearsed a new five minute segment of her act. Her crew/ensemble consisted of a drummer/keyboarder, an "on-stage assistant," two lighting guys, and two guys who handled other equipment besides lighting. The drummer/keyboarder was a short rasty Asian woman who looked like she was sixty years old, although she probably was in her twenties; the on-stage assistant was a short chubby young black woman; and the two lighting and two other guys were almost interchangeable in appearance, all young and about five feet eight inches tall and one hundred sixty pounds, except that two were white, one was black, and one was Native American. Every member of the crew/ensemble had "Vile Bitch & ½" tattooed on his or her left arm.

"Carleigh, this is Ryan Allison, who is applying for the bodyguard job and who I'd like to hire," Harold meekly said.

"Nice to meet you, Carleigh," I said holding out my hand.

"It's Vile Bitch to you, bozo," she sneered, ignoring my hand. "Are you worth a shit as a bodyguard?"

"Let's put it this way Vile Bitch," I snarled, "I could beat the shit out of you and your entire crew in sixty seconds flat, yet I can be as gentle as a lamb in handling people who aren't a threat."

"You look kinda stupid -- are you?" she growled, crossing her arms.

"Why, are you some kind of fucking genius so that you think that I can't keep up with you intellectually?" I growled back.

"So who the fuck was dimwitted enough to hire you before?" she asked with a haughty look.

"People a hell of a lot more famous and worthy of protection than a vile bitch and 1/2," I responded, crossing my arms.

"You'll need to get my stage name tattooed on your arm if you work for me," she barked.

"As long as it comes off with soap and water, great, otherwise get fucked," I snapped.

The name-calling session, masquerading as an interview, continued for another five minutes. Harold stood their completely dumbfounded without saying a word while his crew pretended not to look at us but obviously were taking everything in with grins on their faces.

Finally the "interview" concluded when Vile Bitch hissed "I'm not sure that just because you're fat that you're strong."

With that I was on her in a flash, grabbed both of her knees and lifted her over my head. She obviously was strong herself because she kept her legs and torso straight as I did that, not something that most people can do. She didn't scream, swear, yell, or make any sound at all. After I held her over my head about five seconds I let her drop, caught her, and then put her back on her feet.

When her feet hit the ground Vile Bitch pulled a small knife from her right boot, pointed the blade in my face and with a sneer said "Don't ever fucking touch the talent."

Without hurting her hand I immediately took the knife away from her, held the blade with the handle facing her and said "I was just answering your stupid fucking question -- I have no desire to 'touch the talent' as you put it."

In response to that comment I thought that I saw a small smile on her face, although I couldn't be sure because of the makeup, but after the knife handle was pointing at her for a few seconds she took it, returned the knife to her boot, and said "OK Harold, I guess we can't get anyone better than this dipshit, so go ahead and hire him."

"Thanks for your glowing assessment and confidence," I laughed. As Harold and I turned to go back to his office I could see the entire crew either chuckling or laughing. Vile Bitch saw it too and snarled "What's so fucking funny shitheads? Get back to work!"

When we got back to Harold's office he said "WOW; I've never seen anyone handle Carleigh that way before. You gave it as good as you got without getting mad or mean -- I think that really impressed her."

I laughed. "I have a thick skin and even temperament. By the way, how long did the previous bodyguard last?"

"Uh, well, uh," he hemmed and hawed. When he saw that I was waiting for an answer he finally answered, "Three months."

And so my life as Vile Bitch's bodyguard got off to a roaring start.

Vile Bitch & ½ lived up to her name; she was the queen of "bitchdom!" Her interview approach with me wasn't just an act. She was rude, callous, ill-tempered, and crass in the way that she dealt with almost everyone. The only person who could persuade her to do anything by logic was Harold. I persuaded her by brute force when I absolutely needed to for her safety despite all of her yelling and swearing that often followed.

I found the drummer/keyboarder to be a bitch too, though not on Vile Bitch's level. The on-stage assistant and the four crew members were all nice people. They were all in awe of Vile Bitch, and even though they rarely gave her lip they weren't as subservient as Harold. I did come to realize that it was only by being completely subservient that Harold was able to get Evil Bitch to, on occasion, do reasonable things.

I do have to say that Vile Bitch was as gifted as she was bitchy. While her act didn't particularly appeal to me I had to admit that the woman had talent -- in fact I wondered how someone twenty years old could possibly have learned, let alone have perfected, the myriad of things that she could do on stage, including magic tricks. I was blown away both by her ability and her intellect -- she NEVER forgot anything, could do any calculation in her head, and was a font of knowledge in subjects that I had barely even heard of.

I was very pleased that despite her appearance she never, never, ever used any type of drug or alcohol -- it was hard just to get her to take an aspirin or antihistamine. She also forbade anyone on the crew to use drugs too, although she did allow them to drink beer or wine.

Vile Bitch went on tour about two weeks after I started working for her; hardly enough time to get all security procedures in play, but I made it work. Everyone in the crew was very cooperative -- except for Vile Bitch, of course, and she was the only one that actually needed protection.

The type of audience that Vile Bitch attracted was rough, loud, often high on drugs, and sometimes violent. Every venue that we went to provided security during the performance so I remained backstage to prevent anyone from approaching her there. Never having heard of her before my interview I was surprised by the large number of loyal fans that she seemed to have. She sold out small-to-medium sized venues everywhere that we went, not just in the U. S. but elsewhere in the world.

Because of the type of fans that she had, plus the neighborhoods where some of the venues were, I had more physical activity the first four months working for Vile Bitch than I had had the entire six years I had been a bodyguard before that. Even though she never complimented me, I could tell by her silence, or by her being less bitchy than normal, that she was impressed by the way that I handled bad situations. I always gave the potential perpetrators a chance to back down, but if they didn't I rendered them incapacitated within seconds, including a few guys my size. Despite the Kevlar vest that I always wore when working I did get two minor knife cuts in my side where the vest didn't cover, and a bruise on my left cheek, but nothing serious. Vile Bitch even seemed to be concerned about my injuries -- as much concern as she was capable of expressing, anyway.

I only needed to pull my gun, a Beretta Px4 Storm Compact with 12 rounds of .40 S&W bullets in the clip (which gun I often carried even where it was illegal), three times. I used it only once when some asshole in Mexico yelling a religious saying pulled a gun and pointed it at Vile Bitch. The Mexican venue was so bad that when I shot that fucker in the shoulder it didn't even warrant a visit by the cops; the venue's security just dumped the bleeding guy in an alley and confiscated his gun.

After three and a half months on tour we returned to Vile Bitch's city of residence -- Las Vegas -- to rest up and perfect some new things that she wanted to try in her act. After about a week Harold informed me of where we were touring next.

"We're going, in order, to Germany, the Netherlands, Poland, Hungary, and Russia, with the final performance in the Russian province of Dagestan," he told me, handing me a set of plans on all of the venues in each place. "All the venues, including five in Russia and two each in Poland and Germany, are sold out," he proudly proclaimed.

I'm no expert on current affairs, but I had heard of Dagestan. "Uh, Harold, why in the hell are we going to Dagestan? That is one of the most dangerous places on earth -- there's a fucking rebellion there, suicide bombers, the whole shebang!"

"Well, Ryan," he meekly replied, "didn't you know that Carleigh was born in Dagestan."

"I hate to tell you Harold, but 'Carleigh Cavanaugh' is not a Dagestanian name," I replied.

"Yeah, well her birth father was a Russian politician there. He was killed by Islamic extremists and her Austrian/Russian ancestry mother moved to the U. S. when Carleigh was three. Eighteen months after Carleigh's Mom got to the U. S. she married an American named James Cavanaugh and he adopted Carleigh. She had her first name legally changed to Carleigh and her middle name to what had been her first name, Svetlana," Harold responded. "Carleigh speaks fluent Russian and a little Dargi -- a dialect spoken by about 500,000 in the Caucuses."

"All news to me," I said as I shrugged my shoulders. "That still doesn't make it safe to go to Dagestan."

"Well the Russian government has promised to provide extra security," Harold winced.

"Why in the hell would it do that?" I asked.

"Because Carleigh has been very outspoken against the extremists in Dagestan, especially about the Muslim insurgents who are trying to establish an Islamic state. The Russian government appreciates her willingness to publicly express her views," he acknowledged in a quiet voice.

"What?" I shouted.

"Here," Harold replied, reaching into his desk and pulling out a folder of press clippings relating to Dagestan.

When I read the press clippings over I couldn't fucking believe some of the things that Vile Bitch had said. Her mother had apparently really poisoned her outlook, and being the gross outspoken person that Vile Bitch was her comments were beyond inflammatory; those that were in English. I got the feelings that the ones in Russian were even worse.

"We can't go there," I said with a lump in my throat and a knot in my stomach.

"You'll have to talk to Carleigh about that," Harold whined.

I had three very unpleasant conversations with Vile Bitch over the next week. Some of the mildest things that she called me were "pussy," "wimp," and "faggot." I assured her that we both would end up dead and demanded that she buy a $1,000,000 life insurance policy for me, naming my parents as beneficiaries. To my surprise she actually did that; whether it was because she valued me as her bodyguard or knew that she couldn't get someone else, I don't know; but she bought the policy.

I made several preparations for the trip to Dagestan. I was told that Russian officials would allow me to bring a handgun into Russia (although I used a cheap one, in case it was confiscated, not my Berretta), but that there would be no way to get one into Dagestan because sophisticated metal detectors would be utilized at the border crossing or airport. Therefore I had a local shop with a 3D printer print out a high quality plastic gun -- not strictly legal, but they were willing to do it for twice the normal cost for a device that size.

The only metal parts necessary to make my plastic gun operational were two springs. I left the gun unassembled with different components in different pieces of luggage, and separate from the springs. I hid the bullets in one of the weird devices that Vile Bitch uses in her act.

I was told that the gun could be counted on to fire six shots. After that it was problematic. I never tested the gun because I didn't want to use up one or more of the shots, or provide gun shot residue on the parts.

I also got a cell phone that I was assured would work in Dagestan. I also talked Harold into getting for me, and letting me bring into Dagestan, the equivalent of $5,000 in Russian rubles.

The tour went very well; the crowds were enthusiastic and the grosser that Vile Bitch got the better they seemed to like it. I only had to handle one thug each in Poland and Germany. In Russia the government officials were true to their word and let me keep my metal, less expensive, handgun, and they provided good security so in the big Russian cities things were easier for me than normal. Then came the dreaded Dagestan province venue.

There is no doubt that Islamic separatists knew that Vile Bitch was coming. In fact the electronic chatter was so bad that even the Russians tried to talk her out of going. Of course Vile Bitch never relented -- what a surprise. As soon as I arrived in Dagestan I assembled my plastic gun, retrieved the bullets and inserted them, and checked to see that my cell phone worked -- it did -- and put the rubles in a money belt around my waist.

Security was really tight for Vile Bitch's concert in Dagestan. The venue was swept by dogs before hand -- and two improvised explosives were located and disarmed. Also metal detectors and hand searches were used for all 5,000 plus fans who packed the venue. Aside from a few unruly people, who obviously were protestors, not fans, that Russian security handled, everything went well and Vile Bitch got numerous raucous standing ovations (actually since no one ever seemed to sit during the entire performance I guess that she just got ovations).

When we went to our hotel for the night I actually started to hope that things were going to be OK. I did spend the night in Vile Bitch's suite that night because she had a bedroom and bath separate from an anteroom and second bath. I slept on a couch in the anteroom with my plastic gun under my pillow. A Russian cop was outside our door the entire night.

Things changed the next day.

Fortunately the rest of the crew left Dagestan without incident, on an early morning flight with all of Vile Bitch's equipment in a separate cargo plane. Vile Bitch remained behind to do some public appearances that the Russians had requested, during which, in her fluent Russian, she blasted the idea of an Islamic state in her own inimical way.

We left for the airport for our early evening flight in a caravan of three vehicles. I was not looking forward to our flight -- being cooped up with Vile Bitch on a plane would be horrible -- normally Harold sat next to her, but he had left. In our middle car there were two Russian cops in the front seat with Vile Bitch and me in the back. There was a lead car with two cops, and a trailing car also with two cops. At one isolated stretch of road the front car blew up.

The trailing car was peppered with automatic weapons fire. The cop driving our car was trying to turn around when he was shot in the head and died instantly. With the car at a stop the other cop got out with his AK-47 blazing. I pushed Vile Bitch onto the floor of the back seat, and put my body over her. The gunfire stopped in a few minutes and shortly after that both back doors of our car flew open and several guys who looked like they were straight out of an Al Qaeda training video pointed guns at us. The spoke to us in a language that I didn't recognize, but assumed was Dargi since Vile Bitch obviously understood the jist of it.

"Get your fat ass off of me, they want us out of the car," she told me in her normal bitchy way.

It was clear that the terrorists, Islamic separatists, whatever you want to call them -- terrorists works for me -- wanted Vile Bitch alive, and apparently thought that I might be useful to them too. They never even bothered to search me, although they did run a wand -- obviously some sort of metal detector -- over both of us, and handcuffed our hands behind our backs with plastic cuffs. Then after yelling some more gibberish they pushed us back into the back seat of the same car, and tossed the dead driver onto the ground.