The Empty Ones by Robert Brockway Page B

looking back.
    â€œPretentious,” Randall supplied happily. I could hear Meryll sigh.
    Ooh, we had an audience now. All eyes watching, even the ones too far away to hear the conversation. They could just feel it crackling in the air. Confrontation. Sweet lady fistfight dancing around in her low-cut shirt. Everybody just watching, hypnotized, wondering when something was gonna pop out.
    â€œYou don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, mate,” slab of meat said, and tried to turn away.
    What the hell, man? Nobody that big and ugly gets to be a pacifist.
    â€œYou motherfuckers should get down on your knees and give us Americans a nice, wet, sloppy blow job of gratitude for inventing punk in the first place. Gave you lovely boys an excuse to play dress up for a while.”
    Slab of meat swiveled around slowly. I could see him trying to process what he was hearing— Surely nobody is this stupid? Couldn’t he see he has a whole train station of pissed-off drunken English punks in front of me? I’ll never live it down if I don’t kick his ass now. By the time he’d wobbled all the way about to lock eyes with me, I could see the resignation in him. He’d run the scenarios, and there was no way he was getting out of this without punching me in the face.
    My hip throbbed. My shoulder ached. I really hoped I could at least keep my feet.
    Motherfucker hit me like a rocket ship.
    I have no idea what happened next, exactly. I picture myself flying cartoonishly through the air, body stiff as a board, hitting the ground and sliding to a stop, my head pushing up a little mound of dirt that covers my body, then a little gravestone and a pretty white flower popping up above the spot where I finally settle.
    You’re never knocked out for long. Movies get that shit wrong. It’s a second or two if it’s anything, but by the time I opened my eyes, the train station had already gone full Vietnam.
    Randall had slab of meat in a leg lock, and was pounding on his thick white dome with both fists. I couldn’t see Meryll, but there was a section of crowd substantially more screamy than the rest, so I assumed she was there. A busty blonde arced up out of that spot like a bottle rocket and slammed into the concrete next to me. Her leather jacket was open to the waist, and she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. I could vouch for that, because she rolled straight out of it when she landed, and just sat there, tits-a-heaving, a big red welt already covering half of her face.
    Holy shit, Meryll, you slapped that girl topless.
    I jumped to my feet, intending to get a bit of momentum for a nice, hearty two-footed dropkick.
    Gotta make an entrance.
    But my body had other ideas. My hip flared, the world swam, and I fell straight on my face. I tried to rally my balance, but no luck. I settled for a slow crawl instead, and started biting knees. It was not going to be a dignified night.
    I sunk my teeth into some stovepipe jeans that tasted like fried chicken and motor oil. There was a yelp and a swat from above, so I moved on to the next. Loose black trousers. Recently washed. They tasted a little like detergent, but were otherwise a pleasure to bite into. I felt blood well into my mouth, and spat it out right onto the trousers’ bright white loafers.
    â€œAw, my damn shoes!” somebody moaned.
    I moved on. Bit into a couple more greasy blue jeans; bit into a bandana with the Jolly Roger flag on it; bit into a nice bare kneecap under a dark purple skirt (but not before stealing a quick look). I caught a couple of knees to the head and got hit with a few decent smacks, but everybody’s mind was mostly on the greater riot. I went largely unnoticed, and chewed my way across the platform until I hit an empty space. I crawled out into the clearing on all fours, and saw a dozen swollen punks trying to leave plenty of space between Meryll’s fists and their faces. She was squaring