The Black Dragon

Ch. 3

I reached over to the small table beside the couch and grabbed a bottle of power aid and two Poptarts. "What happened?"

"I don't know, one second she's asking the kid what's wrong and the next second she's angry. She punches a hole in the wall after kicking the table over and now she's calm eating a Poptarts. I really think she's bipolar."

"I can still hear you, you douchbag. And yes I have bipolar disorder. Is there a problem?" I said, my eyes trained on the ceiling. I'm different so what? "No ma'am." I nodded and went back to my Poptarts.

"Wait do you guys have watermelon?" I asked, sitting up quickly. I heard someone quietly mumble "What the fuck?" but I ignored it. "We might in the fridge."

I was at the fridge door before the could blink, looking through it for my addiction. Watermelon or strawberries. Either would work.

To my luck, I found both, after a quick cheer of victory, I retreated at my seat with a fork and started with the container of watermelon. When that was gone, I traded to the strawberries and I was satisfied, for now.

"You know when I'll be able to go back home? I kinda need to get some things from there," I said, after finishing my food. One of the guys scratched the back of his head. "I don't think you're allowed to go back home for now..."

"What?"

He sighed, "I said,"

"I heard what you said. But I why? I have some things there you people shouldn't see," I stressed. A guy who still had a tiara on chuckled, "Like what? A strippers outfit?"

I looked at him as if he was the dumbest person in the universe. "No. My automatic shotgun." They all went wide eyed. "And my pistol, and my glock. And my knive collection."

"Uh...Should I be worried?" I looked over to see the sheriff with his hand not so discreetly on his gun. "Check her bag." They got my bag and carefully searched through it. They pulled out my extra clothes, shoes, a hoodie, hand wrap, a towel, earbuds, a mouthpiece, and the money I've won from tonight and the last week or so. "Nothing suspicious Sir. Some gear, clothes and a shitload of money."

"What's the money for?" the sheriff asked walking further into the room. "You don't check files? I have a job," I sighed. I may live in a bad neighborhood, but that don't mean shit; I don't sell drugs. I may streetfight, but that doesn't nessicarily mean I'm a bad person. He stared at me for a bit before telling them to check me.

I sighed and stood near the wall, leaning against my hands against the wall above my head. Whoever was checking me found the knives and my gun in my holsters that were strapped under my clothes. Hey, you never know when you'll need them.

"They were only gifts from a friend. A girl's got to protect herself from the gangs of men that are pissed they lost to a girl." They all looked at me confused. "I have a reputation of the best street fighter in the state. I'm not suprised at how many people try to either mug me or kill slash threaten me," I shrug. I got used to it.

"You're officially the weirdest and coolest chick I've ever met."

"Thanks. Now, he said I can't go home. Why is that?" I asked turning to the sheriff.

He sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. "I'm sorry but you can't. We snooped around the house and found drugs everywhere just in plain sight. We don't want kids in that type of environment. You and your sister might have to go into a foster home."