by H. T. Night
Chapter Two
The girl’s eyes met mine for the first time, and her initial reaction was to shrink away from me, but then they widened with what I could only describe as hope. “I know you!” She shouted at me. “Please! Help me, please!”
But before I could respond, she threw herself into my arms, nearly knocking me over. I tried to look at her face, but she held me tight.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Are you hurt?”
She released me and grabbed my arm. “Please, just get me out of here!”
“What’s going on?”
“Just get me out of here!”
“I don’t have a car. I’m on foot—”
“I don’t care! Just help me leave!”
I had just watched her jump from an upstairs window, and unless she was on a bad trip, she needed some serious help. But who was she running from? I wasn’t very good at this sort of thing, but then again, who is?
“Okay, then.” I grabbed her hand as we ran back around to the front of the house. The party was still raging. For the most part, her scream had gone unnoticed, although a few guys were watching me. Maybe they noticed her blood.
And just as we hit the front sidewalk, a plump redheaded guy, with flaming hair like a copper penny, vivid in that Carrot Top Thompson way, burst through the front door and down the porch, chasing us.
“Lena!” he screamed. “Where you going, baby?”
“I’m getting the hell out of here, Ron—or Ronnie—whatever the hell your name is. You and your friends can kiss my ass.”
I was still holding her hand. A crowd was gathering.
What the hell had I got myself into?
“Well, that’s what we were trying to do until you decided to be a tease,” the redheaded goon said. This guy was a piece of work. He had more freckles than any twenty-year-old man I had ever seen. He was heavy-set and could have used more time in the gym and less time drinking dark, imported brewskies at a frat party. The empty brown bottles littered the lawn. Damn, expensive stuff, too, that Carlsberg Elephant beer.
Ron smirked and started to walk toward us. Ron was about my height, but he outweighed me by seventy pounds. He looked like an oversized Raggedy Andy doll. Or, maybe a guy who ate an oversized Raggedy Andy doll.
“Don’t come near us!” Lena grabbed my arm.
“Who is this guy?” Ron said, and ignored Lena to point at me with his chin. Uh-oh. In fact, he walked right up to my face. I tried to size up the reach of his arms and legs, compared to mine, so I would know whose punch and kick would reach first. It wasn’t always all about technique or the size of the man, but the length of his limbs that also mattered.
I said, “I’m going to take her home.” I was unusually calm and in control. Deep breaths. I could feel myself flustering. I didn’t like guys coming up to my face and pointing at me with their chins. Big mistake on his part to assume that my surfer looks meant that I was a nice guy. I wasn’t.
“Who the hell are you?” Ron asked. He stepped closer to me. I could smell alcohol on his breath.
“Just go back inside,” I said to Ron. “Go back to your party. Chill.” I took a step back to appear less confrontational.
“And what if I don’t want to go back to my party? What if I am not in a chill mood?” Ron took another step toward me. A bigger step. An extraordinarily stupid step.
I looked at this guy. I would get kicked out of Mixed Martial Arts for even entertaining a thought to fight a guy who was this out of shape. And this drunk. I resolved not to throw the first punch or kick. It was the only way to protect my job, which I was more worried about protecting than my physical ass.
The guy let loose a burp, a very stinky roaring mega-belch that was permeated with imported beer fumes. Sheesh! The hops didn’t smell so good when they were already getting processed in a human being.
One problem: It was hard not to entertain punching a punkface like this into a pulp when you love to fight. And then taunted you by belching in your face and taking a fight stance, as piss poor as it was. To a professional like me, he was already toast. But, I again resolved not to throw the first blow. In a street fight, you never do that. Only in the ring. And then, only sometimes.
I felt my heart rate increase. Blood throbbed in my temples as my inner beast unfurled its fangs in wait. My left hand, my free hand, opened and closed. It itched to make a fist. It itched to connect with this douchebag’s speckled face.
“I asked you a question, Blondie.” And then he growled, “What if I don’t want to go back to my party?”
“Look, Spanky,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I’m sure there’s a whole plethora of girls inside just begging for you to slip them a roofie. Why don’t you just let us get out of here and then you can go back to raping and pillaging.”
“Raping and pillaging? Oh, you’re funny, back street boy. You’re not going anywhere. I took Lena to this party. If anyone’s taking her home, it’s going to be me.”
“I don’t see that happening,” I said. The throbbing in my temple increased. Adrenaline was flooding my bloodstream. “You seemed to have lost that privilege the second you and your frat buddies decided to commit a federal crime.”
“The last time I checked, it wasn’t a crime when a girl was asking for it.”
“So, that’s why her hair is messed up and she has a ripped dress.” I didn’t know if she had ripped her dress on the fall from the upstairs window, or if he had done it, but Ron answered my concerns soon enough.
“What can I say? I guess the bitch likes it rough.”
“You’re a fucking pig, Ron!” Lena yelled out.
“Look, whore, you know you wanted it, and you got scared once you saw how fat my cock was.”
My stomach turned. I stepped toward Ron. “Get the fuck out of here, you fat piece of shit.”
“And what if I don’t?” As he spoke, spittle flew from his mouth and hit my cheeks. I hate that. When someone spits on me, I usually lose my resolve not to beat the shit out of him.
I said, “Then this night will not end well for you.”
“Are you threatening me?” Ron bellowed.
By this time, twenty party celebrants in matching embroidered Gamma Phi Beta polo shirts with little alligator logos and tan Docker slacks had now made their way outside to see what the commotion was about. Among them were four or five of Ron’s frat buddies. His friends were of all shapes and sizes, none of them remotely intimidating. They walked over to us, eager to get in on the fun.
“Fight! Fight! Fight!” one guy chanted. Oh shit, but fighting was fun. Sometimes too much fun. Others egged on Ron by joining in the chant.
Anyway, now they stood next to him in a display of solidarity. Ron shouted to them, “This guy thinks he’s going to kick my ass.”
Ron had no idea what he was up against, obviously. If he had any street smarts, he would take in how I was holding myself. How I was prepared, at a moment’s notice to strike, and strike hard. Any fighter worth his salt knew immediately what he was up against, by the way his opponent held himself. Ron wasn’t a fighter. He wasn’t anything.
And he’s not worth getting suspended over.
I took in a lot of air. I had sized up my opponent and knew immediately what I was up against. Ron was doughy and out-of-shape. I could knock him out in seconds. His friends, on the other hand, might cause some problems if they decided to make this a group affair. I didn’t shy away from group affairs. I shied away, in fact, from very little.
I looked at his friends. Some looked cocky. Some looked confused. Most looked drunk. One or two of them were yelling for Ron to kick my ass. My best guess was that his friends were probably not going to jump, that they were going to allow this to be a fair fight, so I put all my attention on Ron.
Fair? I thought. You’re a trained fighter. There’s nothing fair about it.
Ron rubbed his soft-looking knuckles, sizing me up as I squared off in my own stance. He didn’t like what he saw. Now, I saw the fear in hi
s eyes. Ron and I both knew he wasn’t tough. He was just big. A guy like this got through life barely fighting because he was usually bullying people into thinking he was tougher than he was. He couldn’t bully me, and he knew it. Tonight, he was about to be exposed for the fraud he was.
As he continued to stare at me, I said, “Look, Ron, I’m not falling in love looking at you this long. If you’re going to do something, do it. Otherwise, I’d like to make it home in time for Jimmy Kimmel.” I knew this would piss him off.
Ron continued rubbing his knuckles. He also continued not doing anything.
I gripped the girl, Lena’s, hand tighter. “All right,” I said. “Let’s go, Lena. Ron is apparently a nice guy and is going to let us leave.” I turned around and let go of Lena’s hand, knowing Ron would push me in the back, and sure enough, Ronny boy didn’t disappoint.
Like I said, when I get into a fight, things always go in slow motion for me—and they did so now. The moment I felt Ron’s hand on my back, I whirled around and grabbed his hand. Ron wasn’t prepared for me to turn. I’ve been told my reflexes are off the charts, my anticipatory skills are unrivaled. I credit it all to the slow-motion thing. How it works, I don’t know, but the world seems to slow down around me while I go to normal speed. So, while Ron’s eyes widened in fear as he saw me spin around, he was helpless to do much about it. I grabbed his right hand and pulled him forward using his own momentum. Ron stumbled forward and hit the side of an oversized SUV parked on the street near us. He bounced off the door and fell straight to his ass. I heard chuckling from the crowd.
Ron got to his feet slowly, watching me. People were still laughing behind us, and I could see that their laughter was making Ronny-Boy increasingly angrier. There was a red mark on his forehead where it had bounced off the side of the SUV.
And that’s when he charged at me in a clumsy, uncoordinated motion. I wasn’t sure if he would try to punch me or grab me. Regardless, I turned my body to the left and got into a perfect position to throw a vicious uppercut with my right hand. And that’s what I did. My punch landed directly on his chin, and Ron flew backwards onto the sidewalk, landing hard on his ass and back, his head bouncing off the concrete like a basketball. To my utter surprise, he scrambled quickly back to his feet, where he stared at me unsteadily. I think his eyes might have crossed a little. He staggered once, twice, and then fell backward.
I looked over at Lena. Her eyes and mouth were wide open. I couldn’t tell if she was scared or excited. Then she pointed, and I turned quickly and saw four of Ron’s frat buddies surrounding me. I’ve been jumped before. Being jumped isn’t a big deal if you know how to fight, and there are no weapons involved. As far as I could tell, these guys were packing nothing but their soft fists. And since the crowd was composed of a lot of women, the guys would be less inclined to fight dirty. At least, that has been my experience. Then again, these were the same scumbags who had just tried to hurt Lena, so all bets were off.
The group backed up a little. And once again, I marveled at my propensity to get into fights. Some guys attract money and girls. I attract fists.
The guys were staring at each other, trying to decide what to do. They were waiting for a signal. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of them nod, and I thought: Here they come.
And they did, all four charging me at once. Except, of course, they charged at me in slow motion, my brain once again slowing things down like it always did. The first two guys tried to throw punches in the direction of my head. I easily ducked and sidestepped and gave a sharp left cross to the guy on the right—and broke his nose on contact. Blood spurted down his face and over his shirt, and he screamed and fell away. One down. Three to go.
Nearly simultaneously, I gave the second guy, coming up behind me, a back kick that hit nothing but manhood. He fell to the ground, holding his gooseberries. Two down. Two to go.
The next guy jumped on my back. I threw him over my shoulder, and he landed on the guy with the bloody nose. Three down. One to go.
The last guy just charged me like a football player. I took a step back and gave him a high kick to the chin that made him stagger back. He came at me again and I gave him a four-punch combination, with my last hit breaking his nose. All were down.
My adrenaline was pumping, and I felt as if I could do this all night. By the looks of it, these four couldn’t. They were done. Unfortunately, the Gamma Phi Betas brothers weren’t. The whole fraternity—or at least what was left of them— surrounded me. There must have been twenty-five guys out there. I was good, but I wasn’t that good.
I was about to say something that would call attention to how unfair the numbers were, when something excruciatingly painful exploded in the middle of my back. I fell to my knees and then to the ground. I turned around, and sure enough, Big Red Ron was standing there holding a baseball bat, sporting a shit-eating grin. He raised the bat again.
I hate when that happens.
Chapter Three
Ron looked like a kid ready to hit the crap out of a piñata. He was the deranged kid and I was the piñata. Already, I figured he had done some serious damage to me. He had either chipped my vertebrae, or ruptured my kidney, or both.
As he wheeled back to take another swing, and as I was about to dive under the nearby SUV, we both heard a commotion coming from down the street. He stopped in mid-swing, and I stopped in mid-dive, and promptly coughed up some blood.
And while I coughed, a van appeared around the corner, screeching on two tires. Three guys in black trench coats hung out of the open van doors, whooping and hollering at the top of their lungs. I had just propped myself up on a knee when the van burst over the curb. It bounced and skidded to a halt, tearing up the lawn next to me.
You have got to be kidding me. What the hell did I just get myself into?
All of the doors to the van seemingly opened at once, and three guys poured out of the van, all wearing trench coats and looking as if they had just gotten back from a Marilyn Manson concert. Oddly, they looked alike: tall, pale, and with long, greasy black hair.
I coughed, and more blood came up. I stood slowly. I think Ronnie boy had cracked a rib, too. As I stood, I felt a gentle hand under my elbow, helping me. Say what? I looked, surprised, wanting to know who it was. Lena! She smiled at me, but the smile quickly faded. Her eyes flashed a warning in the direction of the death rock trio.
As I steadied myself, the tallest of the van freaks—easily seven feet tall—rushed over to Lena, who was still holding my arm. He grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. She pulled me with her a little, and I spun, too, nearly falling.
The giant weirdo said, and none too politely: “What the hell are you doing at this meathead party? I warned you to stay away.”
She stood her ground, looking up at the guy. “You think I wanted to come to this party, Atticai? One of these assholes drugged me at the club, kidnapped me, and brought me here.”
A woman got out of the driver’s side of the van. She had dark reddish-maroon hair and was paler than all the guys put together. She was stunning. She too, wore all black, but it looked like a jumpsuit, and she had a bull whip in her hand. She cracked it in the air for effect, not hitting anyone, but it was one of the sexiest things I had ever seen. Hot damn. This night was just getting better and better.
“They drugged you?” asked the tall guy. Atticai, I assumed.
But before she could answer, one of the frat guys yelled out, “Hey, Freak Show! Get your fucking van off my lawn or I’m calling the police.”
“Who said that?” Atticai said, scanning the crowd, which was pretty easy for him to do, since he was the tallest guy I had even seen up close.
A real muscular guy came forward. “I did,” he said. “Now get your fucking van off my grass or I’m going stick my foot deep in your bony ass.”
Atticai turned away, ignoring him. He took both of Lena’s shoulders in his abnormally large hands. “Did they hurt you?”
Lena looked away. There were
tears in her eyes. Hell, there were tears in my eyes, too. “Almost.”
I looked at Ron. He was standing with his back to me, holding the bat loosely, completely absorbed by the three strangers. My back throbbed to the rhythm of my heartbeat.
The tall guy said, “So, which one of these young men thought it would be okay to drug a young woman and take advantage of her?”
Without hesitation, Lena pointed at Ron, who stepped back a little and gripped his baseball bat. “Hey, man, I don’t know what she’s talking about.”
“Of course not,” said Atticai. “Lena, get in the van and shut the door.” He looked back at Ron. “My little ginger-haired friend is going to be taught the correct way to treat a lady.”
Lena grabbed the tall guy’s hand. “Atticai, please. Someone already took care of it. Just let it go.”
Ron, hearing this, took a step back. He also raised the bat again. Atticai continued looking at Ron. “Yes, I can see that someone did some damage to the boy.”
“Who are you calling boy, punk?” Ron jutted the fat part of the bat in the direction of the tall figure.
Atticai’s face hardened. He looked back at Lena. “Get in the van. Now.”
Lena looked at me one more time, tried to smile, and then hurried over to the van. I want to say something, but I’ll admit, I was awkwardly caught up in the scene. Besides, Lena seemed to know these weirdos and didn’t seem afraid. Or, at least, she seemed less afraid.
I had been in enough brawls to know that one was about to go down, and I was pretty fought out for the evening. Getting hit in the back with a bat has a way of doing that to you.
I told myself: This is none of your business. Leave now before this gets ugly.
Easier said than done. For now, it was all I could do to suck in a deep breath, let alone walk away. Besides, there was the small matter of a little payback.
Let it go, I thought. And get the fuck out of here.
“So, you play baseball, Fatty?” Atticai asked to Ron. From somewhere deep inside the tall man’s trench coat, he removed a length of chain.