Hatchet lumbered the last few feet of the alley, aching from the poundage of cash, grinning at the sight of his rear bumper at the corner of a picket fence and then, in the suddenness that can only come from blind violence, he was tumbling across the dirt with a foreign ring sounding in his head. His compass compromised, he spun and fell. He could hear feet on the ground. His eyes begged for a benchmark to his orientation then something rang the bell again. He heard laughter. Young male voices. The corona of a lamppost burst across his retina, the light then snuffed by a human figure. A blast of pain tore through his torso. The full inventory of air in his already laboring lungs left him and the physical panic of it rocked him into heaving spasms.
Cocky young laughter filled the ally. Near dementia, he calculated their number to four, maybe five. Hey, Hatchet! he heard one of them say and he bent his neck in the direction of the utterance only to meet the toe of a boot. The bag had fallen from his shoulder in the struggle and he realized it was under his leg as if placed there to elevate it. He reached and found not the bag but the telescoping chin-up device. Another foot or fist came crashing down on him and another and another until he was living in a swarm of apocalypse. In one desperate stroke of the pipe, the unhindered half of the thing telescoping as it went, he unmade the storm. One of the assailants cried out and staggered into the carrot colored light of the street, holding his now flimsy jaw to his skull. Hatchet swung the pipe again into the vacant space before him as he lifted himself to his feet, his back against the nearest fence.
Come and get me, you silly little fucks!
A dog began barking at the other end of the alley and then another and another. The alley was a kennel gone mad with alarm.
His eyes began to swell. He heard them hastening in the darkness, regrouping for the attack. He wanted to bait them into the street where he could see them but he couldn’t leave the money. He choked up on the pipe and stroked the empty darkness a couple of times. The wounded boy caterwauled now, sitting on the asphalt in an expanding puddle of his own blood as the club he had used on Hatchet rolled away from him into the gutter. One of Hatchet’s enemies rushed to his wounded confederate and saw the torn parts of his face and the blood spilling like black syrup through his fingers. Holyshit, Tommy’s hurt really bad! Hatchet pawed at the ground finding only grass and cold soil. We’ll worry about him in a second! Let’s fuckin take this guy! Hatchet tracked a solid form in the shadow and struck it with the pipe, sending his target reeling into the light. Fuck! Jesus! Somebody get that mutherfucker!
Cocky young laughter filled the ally. Near dementia, he calculated their number to four, maybe five. Hey, Hatchet! he heard one of them say and he bent his neck in the direction of the utterance only to meet the toe of a boot. The bag had fallen from his shoulder in the struggle and he realized it was under his leg as if placed there to elevate it. He reached and found not the bag but the telescoping chin-up device. Another foot or fist came crashing down on him and another and another until he was living in a swarm of apocalypse. In one desperate stroke of the pipe, the unhindered half of the thing telescoping as it went, he unmade the storm. One of the assailants cried out and staggered into the carrot colored light of the street, holding his now flimsy jaw to his skull. Hatchet swung the pipe again into the vacant space before him as he lifted himself to his feet, his back against the nearest fence.
Come and get me, you silly little fucks!
A dog began barking at the other end of the alley and then another and another. The alley was a kennel gone mad with alarm.
His eyes began to swell. He heard them hastening in the darkness, regrouping for the attack. He wanted to bait them into the street where he could see them but he couldn’t leave the money. He choked up on the pipe and stroked the empty darkness a couple of times. The wounded boy caterwauled now, sitting on the asphalt in an expanding puddle of his own blood as the club he had used on Hatchet rolled away from him into the gutter. One of Hatchet’s enemies rushed to his wounded confederate and saw the torn parts of his face and the blood spilling like black syrup through his fingers. Holyshit, Tommy’s hurt really bad! Hatchet pawed at the ground finding only grass and cold soil. We’ll worry about him in a second! Let’s fuckin take this guy! Hatchet tracked a solid form in the shadow and struck it with the pipe, sending his target reeling into the light. Fuck! Jesus! Somebody get that mutherfucker!
Edit 11.14.2018