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There’s a beautiful woman in my apartment. Unfortunately, she’s about to kill me. I suppose you got to take the good with the bad. The only reason I’m not already dead is that the floors of my crappy efficiency apartment are so squeaky they’re pretty much ninja proof. The woman’s on the other side of the room right now wearing khaki shorts and a light blue sleeveless top. She has a utility belt and her milky blonde hair is in a braid. The odd thing is that she’s got these two small, black boxes on the top of her head. That and she’s wielding two knives in her hands.

I’m probably going to die.

She advances on me slowly. I’m still sitting in my swivel desk chair, turned around from my laptop. I wonder what James Bond would do in this situation. He’d grab the girl’s wrists and seduce her into a kiss, and then she’d tell him everything as she languished beside him on silk sheets. And in the next morning she’d be conveniently dead.

Well that sounds nice, even if it seems a little like retroactive necrophilia. I stand up, my hands out like I’m about to catch a beach ball, and I clear my throat, preparing my best Bond impression. “Um…could you stop please?”

Yes, I’m afraid that was more or less entirely unlike James Bond. Particularly the “um.” I’m pretty sure he never ever said “um” in his whole made up life. Then again, whatever I said seems to be working.

The beautiful woman has stopped.

Her skin is perfect, except for a thin, barely visible scar across her right cheek. Her eyes are an enchanting shade of purple, and they are dilated. I read somewhere that if a girl’s eyes are dilated, it means she likes you.

What does it mean if a girl has purple irises? Oh yeah, that she wears contacts. I haven’t seen colored contacts much since the late nineties though, and while I’ve heard of platinum blondes before, the girl’s hair seems more soft and liquid than shiny. I’ve never seen hair like that. It definitely isn’t bleached, or at least I don’t think it is. Who knows maybe there’s some new product out there that I don’t know about.

I’m not sure what to make of the two black boxes protruding out of her skull on either side of her braid. I could almost convince myself they were decorative bows, except for the blinking LEDs and the little computer fans whirring on the sides of them.

“Could you, ah, drop those knives?”

“No,” the girl says in a melodious soprano, “I cannot.” There’s an uncomfortable pause. Then the girl says. “They are surgically attached to my body.”

“Huh?” I ask, intelligently.

By way of answering my question, the girl straightens and lowers her weapons. Then, in a motion so quick I almost don’t catch it, she retracts the blades and the handles into her wrists.  “What the… who the hell are you?”

“I am a Pisces,” the woman says as if that explains everything.

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