Chapter 2: ...but she did have a knife
It was a hot summers day in the hinterland town of Nambour. Nestled between the rolling hills and dusky mountains of Queensland's Sunshine Coast. Pristine beaches, dense forests, sprawling estates of identical fast build houses, and a sky-high unemployment rate.
The Sunshine Coast was all about lifestyle, for those who could afford it.
Luxurious Noosa to the north long turned its back on ugly cousin Nambour, its council succeeding years ago - taking its millions in taxes from the grasp of the needy.
To the south was capital Brisbane, connected to the coast by an old train track that cuts through the sacred countryside.
Nambour is a melting pot of race and culture - home to the Gubbi Gubbi first peoples whom no one has seen for years; the homeless pushed out from neighbour Maroochydore; the government workers; the yuppies; the struggling lower classes; the mega-rich; the stratified middle class; the delinquent youth; the dwindling aging population - and the heat was turning up.
Tensions running high between the long-time residents and the encroaching developers, eager to gentrify the last of old Nambour.
Violence and crime on the rise, hand in hand with gambling, homelessness and alcoholism. The streets aren't safe any time of day unless you know which way to turn, let alone at night when the workers leave for the illusion of safety in their homes.
Yet nothing seems to ebb the flow of newcomers, snapping up the last of the $300k houses, turning vast blocks into subdivisions devoid of trees, space, and character.
Every day saw a cavalcade of trucks driving through the middle of town, hauling diggers into sites and the remnants of old growth forests back out. The farmland was all but gone, a magic ring around city limits was all that kept the trees and heritage houses standing… for now.
Nambour desperately needed economic salvation to support the influx of residents, most of whom worked and played outside of town due to lack of industry.
Developers offered new hope with proposals of bigger department stores, trendy bars and an extra three radiology clinics - for those riddled with ailments or stuck in a cycle of having babies they can't afford.
The poor, desperate, are crying out for gentrification, unaware that they will be pushed out by the process.
What was the answer, then? Who else but a multinational conglomerate - whose website boasts an entire department of sustainability experts who assist with the logging of habitat and demolishing of shanty towns in accordance to current green development standards - to save them?
Despite its many thorns, Nambour had one main attraction: its retailers.
The finest vintage, records, collectibles, cafes, and foodstuffs could all be found in a two block radius in old buildings dwarfed by ugly 90s cinder block monstrosities.
Just off the main drag, over to the right sat Howard Street, which connected the CBD to the rolling hills to the east, and the ever-growing treeless subdivisions which will inevitably span hundreds of kilometers to the south and connect up with the city.
Howard Street was home to the ugliest mall around, built next to the river that flooded the underground car park every summer.
A colossal multi-coloured wall ran the length of the mall - about a block long - adorned with poorly curated council art that clashed with the huge blocks of faded primary colours.
Today it was still outside, the sun glaring off the bonnets of parked cars. Not a soul in sight, except a white man smearing dirt on a yellow patch of wall, making crude stick figures he could be proud of.
Across the road, in a glass plated shop front, stood the owner of Queensland's first vegan deli. A feat promoted with a small plaque sitting in front of the register.
The owner was young, just turned 25. She was an average height, an average weight, and, more often than not, wore average clothing. Her thick brown hair piled atop a slightly round face with high cheekbones, bright green eyes bordered by large circular copper rimmed glasses. Tattoos ran across her chest and down her left arm, telling a story she long stopped repeating.
Today she wore activewear, just like every other. Her body wasn't just thick, it was built. Intimidating at best, her muscular quads and shoulders drew many comments from customers, nothing that a slightly raised eyebrow couldn't quash, so she didn't mind.
Her strength was her power, and the gym was her safe place.
"Velvet?"
A voice snapped Velvet from her trance, induced by the mud smearing white man.
Velvet shook herself awake, placing a hand on the deli counter where she had been weighing up tofu for a local restaurateur.
"Shit, sorry!" Velvet bagged up the order.
"I've got a favour…" the small Thai lady smiled, glancing over the top of her comically large glasses. Her name was Penny, but everyone called her Mama Thai.
Velvet raised her eyebrows.
"You know I can't go any cheaper on the tofu." she pursed her lips.
"No, no-no," Mama Thai waved her hands, "not that, I need you to come over tonight after close. I'm scared."
"You're… scared?" Velvet frowned, confused.
"Yes, break-ins with my neighbours, scary man watches me as I walk to my car."
"Oh," Velvet nodded, "why don't you… call the police?" she grinned
Mama Thai snorted.
"You're funny!" she exclaimed, waving her hand like she was patting the air, "see you!" she walked out laughing.
This was commonplace for Velvet, finding herself in the most peculiar of situations on behalf of her customers. For the most part, the business owners of Nambour relied heavily on one another, especially when the emergency response time grew longer with the move of vital services out of town and further down the coast.
The aircon rattled at 16 degrees, keeping things frosty as temperatures rose over 40 outside. Fridges and freezers lined the walls crammed with colourful packages of ice cream, milk, mock meats, cheeses and ready-made meals all derived from plants. On the shelves running parallel were dry goods: pasta; jackfruit; condiments; crackers and sweets. The deli counter hosted fresh made meats, cheeses and antipasto, as well as cakes and pastries. Plants hung from the white ceiling, low-fi instrumentals hummed from the speakers.
The shop was quaint, filled with light and smelled like fresh flowers. It had survived for nearly two years, in spite of economic decline, from the sales of nut cheeses and coffee.
Velvet had no friends and no family. Nambour, the gym, the deli and its customers were all she had.
*
At 4 pm Velvet locked up shop, a steady stream of cars was backed up halfway to Maroochydore as school was out. No one spent money in small business after 3 in town, scuttling home to aircon and electrified fences or sitting in the food court for no good reason at all. By 6 it would be a ghost town, families rushing through red lights before the scorching sun dips west.
Today Velvet was in her favourite training outfit of black running shorts and a tight-fitting dusky pink top with intricate strapwork across the back. In one hand she held her phone and lip balm - which she applied every five minutes - in the other were her keys and towel. In the crook of her arm was her prized possession, her 2L stainless steel water bottle. Great for hydration, and ideal for thwacking.
Velvet's days were simple: wake, drink coffee, eat, work, go to the gym, eat again, and at night, she helped as many Nambourians as she could. Be it schmoozing with councilors, networking with locals, plastering posters over development billboards or visiting other business owners; if it was for the good of the town, Velvet was all in.
Apart from drinking her morning coffee, going to the gym was Velvet's favourite time of day. It wasn't just an average gym; it was a powerlifting gym. Full of shiny barbells, colourful calibrated plates, and huge black dumbbells. The gym was situated at the end of Howard Street, a five-minute walk from the deli.
Each week she works with her trainer, who programs her lifting and divides it into four main sessions revolving around the deadlift, squat and bench press. Each week the weight gets heavier, and every now and then they test to see if Velvet has gotten any stronger.
This week was week number seven of a new block, the weight on the bar was the heaviest it has ever been, and Velvet was struggling. In just two weeks she would be testing in preparation for an upcoming competition, and she feared she might have a fit if her strength gains have plateaued.
Velvet briskly walked to the gym, mopping sweat from her forehead as she went.
The gym was in a huge shed which could only be accessed by walking down the side and round the back. It was hot, dirty and full of sweaty people of all shapes and sizes making a cacophony of grunts.
In the deli, Velvet was the most muscular woman in the world. In the gym, Velvet was almost normal by comparison. She slunk in through the door and put her gear down on a deadlift mat, trying hard not to make eye contact with any of the members currently slamming hundreds of kilograms onto the floor. Though she was personable, and often outgoing, Velvet was mostly shy.
Her stomach constricted as she awkwardly stared at the ground, waiting for her trainer to appear.
"Sup Vel-dog?!" right on queue, Jack the trainer appeared from the back of the gym, waving to Velvet.
"Sup?" Velvet attempted to casually lean against a strut covered in cobwebs.
She quickly jumped away to brush them off.
"Ha-ha, nice," Jack grabbed a bumper plate from the stack and slid it onto an end of the barbell, "hope you're ready, we're warming up to 120 kilograms today."
Velvet gave a clenched teeth grin.
"Great."
*
At 5:45 Velvet slid the door to the deli open, basking in the wave of cold air that rushed over her. A quick trip with a basket down the aisle and dinner was sorted: pre-made potato bake, a block of tofu and a tub of coconut salted caramel ice cream. The best part of powerlifting was trying to eat over 2000 calories, at times a struggle for 5'6" Velvet who on a good day weighed 60 kilos.
Behind the deli counter was a half wall that bordered the narrow kitchen, scrubbed within an inch of its life.
It was common for health inspectors to show up this time of year, whacking massive fines on unsuspecting owners right before the Christmas season. Or worse, shutting down the business for good.
Out the back door was a toilet and a small garden given shade by clumps of bamboo that rose many stories into the sky. To the left ran the brick wall of the old ambulance building next door, to the right and up a staircase was Velvet's apartment. From the outside, it looked neglected, pale yellow bricks and faded blue gutters.
She ran up the stairs, arms full with food and her trusty water bottle, now empty.
Instead of a keyhole, there was a pin pad, which Velvet hastily mashed at with her long pale fingers.
The door opened up to a small foyer, rubbish on the floor and a stain on the wall. To the left sat a door with another pin pad this time disguised behind a faux light switch.
A different code was punched in this time, and Velvet swung open the door to her sanctuary. Light flooded in from ceiling-high aluminum windows that looked out onto the bamboo garden. From the ground below it was hard to see through the large windows, most believing the building to be long abandoned.
If anyone asked, Velvet said she lived on the edge of town between the trees with her mother, despite her mother having died many years ago. Perhaps the only benefit to no friends and family; no one knew when you were lying.
The apartment was small, one long room for a lounge and kitchen, a bed situated on the wall opposite the windows so that Velvet could wake up and see the sky. Sparsely decorated with Scandinavian designs salvaged from tip shops, apart from the bed there was a wardrobe, a couch, a desk with a chair and a small coffee table. The bathroom was larger than the kitchen with exposed copper piping and muted pink towels.
She sat on the couch and shoveled food into her mouth, desperate to refuel from a grueling session. At this rate, she was surely going to fail her big lifts in two weeks' time.
It was now 6:15, she had plenty of time to rest and shower before heading out at 9 to see Mama Thai.
Good, she thought, plenty of time for Netfli--
Her phone buzzed on the table, a familiar name flashing on the screen.
"Helloo?" she answered, slouched back into the couch.
"V, can't talk long," came the nasal voice of Dan, the owner of Swampland, a local gallery and dive bar, "come tonight, Councillor Smith is opening the exhibition and I know you've been trying to meet with him."
Dan hung up.
"Good talk, though." Velvet muttered to herself, tapping her forehead with her phone as she thought.
Councillor Smith's portfolio included major redevelopments for Nambour and was yet to sign off on any of the current bids. Velvet, staunchly opposed to any new department stores that would spell the end of the deli and the other unique businesses, had been trying to meet with Councillor Smith for months to put her ideas on the table.
She believed that instead of new development, funding could be put into existing businesses to help them grow, and in turn, foster the creation of new small business that would keep the intrinsic small-town charm of Nambour.
The gallery was just a block away, and the launch started at 6:30.
Velvet sniffed her armpits.
Shit! I have to shower, she thought.
Ten minutes later Velvet was rummaging through her wardrobe, throwing lycra over her head in search of a dress.
Five minutes after that she was ready to go, a green satin dress hung from her shoulders and dipped down her back. No makeup, no bra, no heels, no cares given. Her hair pulled low into a bun with dangly copper earrings hitting the side of her jaw, Velvet was ready to mingle.
Full water bottle - check.
Charged phone - check.
Lip-gloss - check.
Nunchucks - check.
Just kidding.
But she did have a knife.
Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone