Screeching down the highway at 130 kilometres an hour yelling "le le le le le le le le le" before kicking up dust as she pulls into the nearest country pub for a drink and a feed, Screaming Betty almost falls over trying to dismount her bike due to her short little legs. Still, she pulls it together just in time.
Your run-of-the-mill rebel without any style, Betty was probably raised by wolves or something and can barely keep up with herself. Her chaotic energy seethes through her vegan leather jacket that she pulls over her shoulders as she settles in awkwardly but somehow manages to order a beer with just a nod and a wink. Even heroes need to take a break some time.
A world of contradictions, Betty's absolutely everywhere and nowhere all at once, ready to jump to the rescue but forgetting where she's put her fuckin' phone yet again. Betty spends her days out in the heat trying to avenge the lives of all the women she couldn't protect from harm. Moving and grooving at her own erratic pace, Screaming Betty hurtles down highways on her motorbike with her gang, The Vermentinos. She's constantly keeping one eye out for solo female travellers looking for respite from the humbug of male disgrace and another eye keenly for the next rural watering hole.
A misandrists' wet dream, Betty and The Vermentinos hunt and gather these lost women only to send them on to safehouses that are hidden along the highway. She's assigned other, more centred and stable people in her life to create and maintain these across the years. Sometimes they let her crash for a night - or two, max - never more, because she always leaves it worse than she finds it. "It's all love" says Betty as she trips towards her bike. She's heading off again because she was caught teaching some of the new chicks how to make a shiv outta a tampon applicator. No dramas, though, as she'll be welcomed back with open arms in a week, with a bag of bruised apples under her arm that she would've bought from a local farmer up the road.
As she rides on into the new day, forgetting to let her gang know that she's off – Betty lights a match for the ciggie that she's holding between her left hand and the handlebars with her teeth. Several deep puffs in, she tosses that lit bastard into the abyss of masculinity she's left long behind her. By the time they realise the air is already still, The Vermentinos hold off and wait for the wind to blow just right, with Betty and her bike screaming away into the white hot sun as they ride off into the brightness to find her.
Written by Haneen Martin Mahmood and Isobella Caruso
