your faggoty ass.”
“I guess I could kick you in the balls, but that would require you to have some.”
He snickered, but said nothing. His now clenching fists were going to do the rest of his talking, so I let mine get in the first word. I feinted with my left shoulder, but threw my right hand. Stan lifted his arms to protect his face as my trunk twisted to power the punch. Too bad for him I wasn’t going for his head. I caught him flush in the liver with the hook. I figured the liver was as good a target as any. Given his intake of vodka and deep fried food, it must’ve been foie gras central.
That bent him over and the rush of air that went out of him was pretty impressive. But instead of following up, I did what I always do: I spent too much time playing to the crowd. Stan, still bent over, charged me, his left shoulder burying itself in my ribs. I tried keeping my feet, but it was no good. I was going down. My left hand spun off a counter stool and that was my last moment of verticality.
Petrovic was on me, pulling at my legs trying to get me out from between the stools. But I’d hitched my arms around the stool poles on either side of me to anchor myself and I kicked out my legs. My left heel connected with something hard. His jaw, I hoped. Whatever it was just pissed him off. He gave up on my legs and brought his right forearm down across my diaphragm and abdomen. Something big and spongy, my left lung probably, caught in my throat and I gasped for air. Suddenly that first punch I threw didn’t seem like such a brilliant move. I tried turning on my side and curled into a ball like a hedgehog, but I lacked protective quills. Petrovic kicked me in the back, but it didn’t land with much force as his foot deflected off one of the poles.
The front door opened; the string of sleigh bells tied to the handle clanged against the glass. I felt a gush of cool, fresh air and I saw a pair of polished black boots walking my way. Christmas coming early. Maybe Santa was bringing me a shotgun.
“That’s enough, Stan!” Black Boots barked. Petrovic disagreed, stomping instead of kicking me. This time his shoe didn’t deflect off anything but my ribs. Good thing I already couldn’t breathe or it might’ve really hurt.
“Enough!”
I recognized the voice. It was the deputy sheriff who’d been at the Air Force base three nights ago. I guess he was taking a break from high school skirt patrol. Still, I was wary enough of Stan to brace myself against another stomp. It never came. Arms were pulling me up and I was standing—well, sort of standing—between Deputy Dog and Jim Trimble. I managed some shallow breaths.
“You all right, Professor Weiler?” the deputy wanted to know.
Do I look all right, you yokel motherfucker?
“Fine. I’m fine.” I straightened myself out and noticed Petrovic about ten feet away over by the front door. He was snarling. I can’t say that I’d ever actually seen a human snarling before. “Somebody get Stan a bone or some Liv-A-Snaps or something before he goes batshit.”
“Fuck you, asshole. This isn’t over.”
“Shut up, Stan,” the deputy said. “And, Professor, I think we could use a little less of your lip at the current moment. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Now what the hell was goin’ on here?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“Stan?”
“Nothing.”
“So, that’s the way it’s gonna be, huh?” the deputy said, shaking his head. “Have it your way, boys, but next time I’ll haul both your asses in. Professor, why don’t you take this opportunity to depart?” It wasn’t a suggestion.
Jim made sure to keep himself between Petrovic and me as I walked out.
“Remember, hero, this ain’t over,” Stan said as we passed.
I caught a glimpse of Jim’s face. He wanted me to say something. I could see it in his eyes and for some reason it was suddenly important for me not to disappoint the kid.
“Yeah, you’re right, Stan. It isn’t over. You started it, but
“I guess I could kick you in the balls, but that would require you to have some.”
He snickered, but said nothing. His now clenching fists were going to do the rest of his talking, so I let mine get in the first word. I feinted with my left shoulder, but threw my right hand. Stan lifted his arms to protect his face as my trunk twisted to power the punch. Too bad for him I wasn’t going for his head. I caught him flush in the liver with the hook. I figured the liver was as good a target as any. Given his intake of vodka and deep fried food, it must’ve been foie gras central.
That bent him over and the rush of air that went out of him was pretty impressive. But instead of following up, I did what I always do: I spent too much time playing to the crowd. Stan, still bent over, charged me, his left shoulder burying itself in my ribs. I tried keeping my feet, but it was no good. I was going down. My left hand spun off a counter stool and that was my last moment of verticality.
Petrovic was on me, pulling at my legs trying to get me out from between the stools. But I’d hitched my arms around the stool poles on either side of me to anchor myself and I kicked out my legs. My left heel connected with something hard. His jaw, I hoped. Whatever it was just pissed him off. He gave up on my legs and brought his right forearm down across my diaphragm and abdomen. Something big and spongy, my left lung probably, caught in my throat and I gasped for air. Suddenly that first punch I threw didn’t seem like such a brilliant move. I tried turning on my side and curled into a ball like a hedgehog, but I lacked protective quills. Petrovic kicked me in the back, but it didn’t land with much force as his foot deflected off one of the poles.
The front door opened; the string of sleigh bells tied to the handle clanged against the glass. I felt a gush of cool, fresh air and I saw a pair of polished black boots walking my way. Christmas coming early. Maybe Santa was bringing me a shotgun.
“That’s enough, Stan!” Black Boots barked. Petrovic disagreed, stomping instead of kicking me. This time his shoe didn’t deflect off anything but my ribs. Good thing I already couldn’t breathe or it might’ve really hurt.
“Enough!”
I recognized the voice. It was the deputy sheriff who’d been at the Air Force base three nights ago. I guess he was taking a break from high school skirt patrol. Still, I was wary enough of Stan to brace myself against another stomp. It never came. Arms were pulling me up and I was standing—well, sort of standing—between Deputy Dog and Jim Trimble. I managed some shallow breaths.
“You all right, Professor Weiler?” the deputy wanted to know.
Do I look all right, you yokel motherfucker?
“Fine. I’m fine.” I straightened myself out and noticed Petrovic about ten feet away over by the front door. He was snarling. I can’t say that I’d ever actually seen a human snarling before. “Somebody get Stan a bone or some Liv-A-Snaps or something before he goes batshit.”
“Fuck you, asshole. This isn’t over.”
“Shut up, Stan,” the deputy said. “And, Professor, I think we could use a little less of your lip at the current moment. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Now what the hell was goin’ on here?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“Stan?”
“Nothing.”
“So, that’s the way it’s gonna be, huh?” the deputy said, shaking his head. “Have it your way, boys, but next time I’ll haul both your asses in. Professor, why don’t you take this opportunity to depart?” It wasn’t a suggestion.
Jim made sure to keep himself between Petrovic and me as I walked out.
“Remember, hero, this ain’t over,” Stan said as we passed.
I caught a glimpse of Jim’s face. He wanted me to say something. I could see it in his eyes and for some reason it was suddenly important for me not to disappoint the kid.
“Yeah, you’re right, Stan. It isn’t over. You started it, but
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