From high above, Hatchet catching the glint of it just as if he were sitting in the middle rows of a movie theater, watching it on a huge projector screen, the long mildly falciform blade severed the soupy darkness with a white blast of shining tracery that struck the pipe in Hatchet’s hand, the dull aluminum tone echoing in the ally. His recognition of the sword scattered his feet beneath him and he fell onto the bag he had been so desperate to defend. He rolled, taking the bag with him and he heard the swish of the blade again. Kill that mutherfucker! a voice cried from the street. Hatchet rose and began working his way backward in the opposite direction, dragging the bag as he shuffled in reverse, the pipe at the ready in his gloved hand. One of the boys from the street re-entered the darkness. Hatchet figured two of them kicking around in the dust now. He dragged the bag into a wide shaft of security light beaming from the backdoor of one of the houses. He left the bag in the bright blue ray dividing the alley and waited on the other side. He could hear their movement and saw a hand reach for it. He unloaded the full force of his weapon, slinging his arm, twisting his torso. The forearm of his enemy cracked and became anything but an arm, a black spray shivering tiny droplets of blood against the silver finish of the pipe. The din of the dogs rose in even higher alarm as the boy screamed out in horror.
In fear of the sword, Hatchet tugged on the shoulder strap of the bag, hoping to bait his next victim into the light. With a swoosh, the blade caught it like any fleshy trunk and split it like a sausage. Green monetary guts spilled into the shaft of blue light as Hatchet fell back into the dirt and darkness with only the empty skin of the bag in his grip. He leapt to his feet. His left eye completely swollen shut, he readied himself for the onslaught. In the soundscape of wailing pain and barking animals and his heaving and breathing, he could hear a defined chuckle. A thin veiny tattooed hand reached into the light and snagged the bottom half of the severed deposit bag, leaving a fair portion of the contents on the ground. Hatchet could hear the swordsman rallying his busted and wounded companions at the end of the alley and then he saw them in their relative conditions of distress and pain form a loose pack and disappear from the frame of the outlet of the alley.
He heard a screen door slam shut and thought of shotguns and rock salt or worse.
He limped to the conical pile of money sitting in the light and began shoveling it into what was left of the shoulder bag. In the heart of the pile, he found an object that didn’t belong but he had no time to inspect it. He gathered it and the rest of the cash, tucked the wad under his arm and made his way to the end of the alley with his one foot arrested in sharp pain. At the outlet of the alleyway, he checked the corners for ambush. A voice sounded behind him, warning him about cops and he’d better get the hell outta here! He stepped in a swift but stiff gate to his vehicle, tossed the cash inside and climbed in to drive. The hoodlums had smashed his windshield. It was spidered and flimsy before him. Goddammit! He started the truck and drove without his lights for at least ten residential blocks in hopes of finding them on the cross streets somewhere but they were gone. He wondered if they would attempt an emergency room somewhere. He wondered if he needed to do the same.
In fear of the sword, Hatchet tugged on the shoulder strap of the bag, hoping to bait his next victim into the light. With a swoosh, the blade caught it like any fleshy trunk and split it like a sausage. Green monetary guts spilled into the shaft of blue light as Hatchet fell back into the dirt and darkness with only the empty skin of the bag in his grip. He leapt to his feet. His left eye completely swollen shut, he readied himself for the onslaught. In the soundscape of wailing pain and barking animals and his heaving and breathing, he could hear a defined chuckle. A thin veiny tattooed hand reached into the light and snagged the bottom half of the severed deposit bag, leaving a fair portion of the contents on the ground. Hatchet could hear the swordsman rallying his busted and wounded companions at the end of the alley and then he saw them in their relative conditions of distress and pain form a loose pack and disappear from the frame of the outlet of the alley.
He heard a screen door slam shut and thought of shotguns and rock salt or worse.
He limped to the conical pile of money sitting in the light and began shoveling it into what was left of the shoulder bag. In the heart of the pile, he found an object that didn’t belong but he had no time to inspect it. He gathered it and the rest of the cash, tucked the wad under his arm and made his way to the end of the alley with his one foot arrested in sharp pain. At the outlet of the alleyway, he checked the corners for ambush. A voice sounded behind him, warning him about cops and he’d better get the hell outta here! He stepped in a swift but stiff gate to his vehicle, tossed the cash inside and climbed in to drive. The hoodlums had smashed his windshield. It was spidered and flimsy before him. Goddammit! He started the truck and drove without his lights for at least ten residential blocks in hopes of finding them on the cross streets somewhere but they were gone. He wondered if they would attempt an emergency room somewhere. He wondered if he needed to do the same.
Edit 11.14.2018