loser.
I slipped out of my jacket and hung it on the nearest car’s
door mirror. It was a ten-year-old Plymouth, good paint, good
chrome. An enthusiast’s ride. I saw the Special Forces sergeant
I had spoken to come out into the lot. He looked at me for a
second and then stepped away into the shadows and stood
with his men by the cars. I took my watch off and turned away
and dropped it in my jacket pocket. Then I turned back. Studied
my opponent. I wanted to mess him up bad. I wanted Sin to
know I had stood up for her. But there was no percentage in
going for his face. That was already messed up bad. I couldn’t
make it much worse. And I wanted to put him out of action
for a spell. I didn’t want him coming around and taking his
frustration out on the girls, just because he couldn’t get back at me.
He was barrel-chested and overweight, so I figured I
might not have to use my hands at all. Except on the farmers,
maybe, if they piled in. Which I hoped wouldn’t happen. No
need to start a big conflict. On the other hand, it was their call.
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Everybody has a choice in life. They could hang back, or they
could choose up sides.
I was maybe seven inches taller than the guy with the face,
but maybe seventy pounds lighter. And ten years younger. I
watched him run the numbers. Watched him conclude that on
balance he would be OK. I guessed he figured himself for a real
junkyard dog. Figured me for an upstanding representative of
Uncle Sam. Maybe the Class As made him think I was going to
act like an officer and a gentleman. Somewhat proper, some
what inhibited.
His mistake.
He came at me, swinging. Big chest, short arms, not much
reach at all. I arched around the punch and let him skitter away.
He came back at me. I swatted his hand away and tapped him in
the face with my elbow. Not hard. I just wanted to stop his
momentum and get him standing still right in front of me, just
for a moment.
He put all his weight on his back foot and lined up a straight
drive aimed for my face. It was going to be a big blow. It would
have hurt me if it had landed. But before he let it go I stepped in
and smashed my right heel into his right kneecap. The knee is
a fragile joint. Ask any athlete. He had three hundred pounds
bearing down on it and he got two hundred thirty driving
straight through it. His patella shattered and his leg folded
backwards. Exactly like a regular knee joint, but in reverse. He
went down forward and the top of his boot came up to meet the
front of his thigh. He screamed, real loud. I stepped back and
smiled. He shoots, he scores.
I stepped back in and looked at the guy’s knee, carefully. It
was messed up, but good. Broken bone, ripped ligaments, torn
cartilage. I thought about kicking it again, but I really didn’t
need to. He was in line for a visit to the cane store, as soon as
they let him out of the orthopaedic ward. He was going to be
choosing a lifetime supply. Wood, aluminum, short, long, his
pick.
‘I’ll come back and do the other one,’ I said, ‘if anything
happens that I don’t want to happen.’
I don’t think he heard me. He was writhing around in an oily
puddle, panting and whimpering, trying to get his knee in a
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position where it would stop killing him. He was shit out of luck
there. He was going to have to wait for surgery.
The farmers were busy choosing up sides. Both of them were
pretty dumb. But one of them was dumber than the other.
Slower. He was flexing his big red hands. I stepped in and
headbutted him full in the face, to help with the decision
making process. He went down, head-to-toe with the big
guy, and his pal beat a fast retreat behind the nearest pickup