reach the end of them and have to accept that there might not be any more after the next few seconds.
He touches his face, runs his fingers softly over the hole in the top of his forehead. Jesus is grinning at him, visibly shaking as he rushes forward, the pistol he carries still raised and all Fist can do is stand there and wait for him. He can’t move a muscle.
Bianca whispers a song in his ear and it fills his heart with sadness because she’s telling him that she loves him, that she’s thankful for all he’s done for her, that he’s made more of a difference than he ever realized by that one small act.
Miniscule to you , she says. Incredible to me .
He finds a little strength, though it’s barely enough to blink. It seemed that all the stories he’d ever heard were tragedies when you got right down to it because all good things run their cycle and end up nourishment for things yet to come.
Jesus is up in his face. He knocks the pistol from Fist’s grip. Laughter builds all around them, and Fist turns his head, sees Karen and Bethany, both of them holding each other and waiting for a reunion Fist realizes he doesn’t want yet. Jesus’ breath stinks like old oil. He says, “You fucked up, boss.” He seems unharmed, the last of his tremors fading. He raises the pistol and presses it over Fist’s heart. Bianca slides down Fist’s shoulder and across the barrel and Jesus jumps, jerking the gun away, startled.
Fist smiles for a second as his hand closes over the knife tucked into his waistband. He takes a quick step to close the distance, hoping his aim will be true because he doesn’t want anymore collateral damage.
Bianca skitters across Jesus’ back. He’s freaking out, trying to rip his shirt off and Fist thinks it’s almost funny that a man could be so scared of a little lizard that has nothing left. His vision fades in and out, bright and white, then black, then bright again. He grabs Jesus’ wrist and the kid kicks out blindly. Fist absorbs the strike against his leg, absorbs what power he can from it. He squeezes harder, hoping he’ll be able to crush bone, and Jesus screams. Fist stabs the back of the boy’s neck, buries the small blade to the hilt. The jolt of impact nearly knocks him down, but he hangs on, rips the knife free, sees Bianca wink at him and crawl down Jesus’ leg, make tracks back toward the cart where Fist’s family waits for him.
His head thrums with an ache so thick he can barely focus on anything but this one thing left to do.
Jesus tries to turn the gun toward him but Fist slashes his fingers and the pistol clatters against concrete. He stabs the kid in the back, hoping he can pierce his lungs. He stabs again. Again. Each time he jerks the blade free a spray of blood jets out and Jesus’ is wheezing, falling to his knees. Fist jabs the blade into his ear and Jesus howls. He holds a bloody hand to his head. Fist says, “Forgive me.” He stabs the knife and pins the kid’s hand to the side of his head. Jesus tries to jerk it free with his left hand but his eyes water and his face contorts from the pain. Fist scoops him up under the arms and throws him toward one of the machines. A chain dangles there. He thinks, I can get it around his neck. I’ll beat him to death …
He looks at his family.
His wife says, Enough .
His daughter cries because she’s never seen this side of him and it scares her.
It scares him, too, but they’d never believe him because at this moment he enjoys it; just like he did in the ring with the random boxer who talked a big game and did shit outside the ring, trying to get under his skin and into his head, and they learned the hard way, and much too late, that it only fueled what Fist needed to win.
Jesus lashes out with his left hand, still some fight in him, and Fist respects that in a way he can’t fully understand. He grabs the punk by the throat and bounces his head off a chunk of rusting steel. Jesus goes limp. Fist can barely
He touches his face, runs his fingers softly over the hole in the top of his forehead. Jesus is grinning at him, visibly shaking as he rushes forward, the pistol he carries still raised and all Fist can do is stand there and wait for him. He can’t move a muscle.
Bianca whispers a song in his ear and it fills his heart with sadness because she’s telling him that she loves him, that she’s thankful for all he’s done for her, that he’s made more of a difference than he ever realized by that one small act.
Miniscule to you , she says. Incredible to me .
He finds a little strength, though it’s barely enough to blink. It seemed that all the stories he’d ever heard were tragedies when you got right down to it because all good things run their cycle and end up nourishment for things yet to come.
Jesus is up in his face. He knocks the pistol from Fist’s grip. Laughter builds all around them, and Fist turns his head, sees Karen and Bethany, both of them holding each other and waiting for a reunion Fist realizes he doesn’t want yet. Jesus’ breath stinks like old oil. He says, “You fucked up, boss.” He seems unharmed, the last of his tremors fading. He raises the pistol and presses it over Fist’s heart. Bianca slides down Fist’s shoulder and across the barrel and Jesus jumps, jerking the gun away, startled.
Fist smiles for a second as his hand closes over the knife tucked into his waistband. He takes a quick step to close the distance, hoping his aim will be true because he doesn’t want anymore collateral damage.
Bianca skitters across Jesus’ back. He’s freaking out, trying to rip his shirt off and Fist thinks it’s almost funny that a man could be so scared of a little lizard that has nothing left. His vision fades in and out, bright and white, then black, then bright again. He grabs Jesus’ wrist and the kid kicks out blindly. Fist absorbs the strike against his leg, absorbs what power he can from it. He squeezes harder, hoping he’ll be able to crush bone, and Jesus screams. Fist stabs the back of the boy’s neck, buries the small blade to the hilt. The jolt of impact nearly knocks him down, but he hangs on, rips the knife free, sees Bianca wink at him and crawl down Jesus’ leg, make tracks back toward the cart where Fist’s family waits for him.
His head thrums with an ache so thick he can barely focus on anything but this one thing left to do.
Jesus tries to turn the gun toward him but Fist slashes his fingers and the pistol clatters against concrete. He stabs the kid in the back, hoping he can pierce his lungs. He stabs again. Again. Each time he jerks the blade free a spray of blood jets out and Jesus’ is wheezing, falling to his knees. Fist jabs the blade into his ear and Jesus howls. He holds a bloody hand to his head. Fist says, “Forgive me.” He stabs the knife and pins the kid’s hand to the side of his head. Jesus tries to jerk it free with his left hand but his eyes water and his face contorts from the pain. Fist scoops him up under the arms and throws him toward one of the machines. A chain dangles there. He thinks, I can get it around his neck. I’ll beat him to death …
He looks at his family.
His wife says, Enough .
His daughter cries because she’s never seen this side of him and it scares her.
It scares him, too, but they’d never believe him because at this moment he enjoys it; just like he did in the ring with the random boxer who talked a big game and did shit outside the ring, trying to get under his skin and into his head, and they learned the hard way, and much too late, that it only fueled what Fist needed to win.
Jesus lashes out with his left hand, still some fight in him, and Fist respects that in a way he can’t fully understand. He grabs the punk by the throat and bounces his head off a chunk of rusting steel. Jesus goes limp. Fist can barely
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