by Jeff Vrolyks
* * *
Locked up with indecision, Timothy stood before Max without a clue as to what he could do or say to resolve this seemingly unavoidable skirmish. The guy had just let his idea of rape be known. Maybe he was kidding but there was no humor in his tone. And for that to happen, something would first have to be done with Timothy.
He’d have to fight Max, there was no way around it. And he’d get his ass kicked severely, just like last time. He prayed silently for the power and courage to endure what was about to happen. He prayed for a fluke victory over this insurmountable adversary.
Suddenly the loft lights blinked off. Darkness returned to the room. In his mind he still saw the silhouette of Max, knew precisely where his face was, should he decide to throw a preemptive blow. The girls had killed the lights to give him a chance at overcoming Max, and bless their sweet hearts for contriving the idea because he needed all the help he could get.
Timothy took a bracing step forward and swung blindly at his target, striking his face, a glancing blow that would have been more effective two inches to the right. It would end nothing.
“The fuck?!” Max cried.
Max lunged forward and grappled Timothy, pumped a knee into his gut, stealing his wind with a guttural grunt. Max threw a quick hook where he figured Timothy’s head to be, connected with what felt like a cheek, sending him back on his ass. Max heard him fall to the floor; he massaged his hand with a slanted grin: lights or not, this fight was going to have the same outcome as last year’s.