Grinder by Mike Knowles

feet away. I had already figured out he was alone in the showroom and spotted the only exit, a closed door ten feet away from Guy behind the counter, when my presence was acknowledged. He snorted loudly and swallowed whatever he moved in his throat before he stood. He was a fat man with huge features. His large nose and heavy cheeks were peppered with blackheads. They were so large I thought I could work them out with needle-nose pliers. He wore a golf shirt with maroon pants that were hiked up high on his waist, making his torso look short and wide. The golf shirt must have once been washed with the pants because it was dyed an uneven light pink. Guy wore it without an undershirt, and the tight top showed every roll, nipple, and imperfection. He looked at me through dirty greasy glasses and spoke. His breath was stale from smoking.
    “I'm losing a fucking bundle on AC Milan here.”
    I didn't respond so he continued — beginning with another snort. “What can I get for you?”
    I looked around the store, making a big production of it so Guy's eyes followed my gaze. “What have you got that takes out blood?”
    Guy snapped his eyes back to mine and looked at me, suddenly unsure. “What do you need to take blood out of?”
    “Dom told me you're the man to see about cleaning a place right. If you know what I mean.” My voice didn't come out weak or wobbly like a liar's; it came out smooth — a conspirator's voice with just the right amount of malice.
    Guy leaned back in close — smiling now. “What the fuck did you get into, hunh? What's the blood on? Wood? Carpet? Concrete?”
    I looked down at the dingy brown-carpeted floor. “Carpet,” I said. “Old worn-in carpet.”
    “If the carpet's old, you'll have to do the whole floor or else someone will know the one spot was cleaned. How long has the stain been on the floor?”
    “Not long,” I said. “Not long at all.”
    Guy paused for a wet snort. “I got a couple a steam cleaners that will take anything out as long as it's fresh. The size you need depends on the size of the stain. How much blood is there?”
    “There's gonna be a lot of blood, Guy,” I said as the side of my mouth started to move. The grin formed on my face and it did to Guy what it used to do to me when I saw it on my uncle's face. He was unsettled, unsure of what to make of it. It occupied him while my right hand pulled out the rubber bone.
    “Gonna? What the fuck you mean gonna? How much blood is there, stunad?”
    I didn't answer. I was too busy swinging the bone up from my hip. I swung it like an overhead tennis serve. The bone arced back as I made a split-second pause in midair, and then shot forward with my arm's change in direction. The hard rubber pounded into the fat face, popping the swollen nose like a water balloon. Blood went all over the thin pink shirt and counter. Guy put two bloated hands up to his face. The fingers, thick like rolls of toonies, tried to hold back the sudden gush of blood.
    I took a handful of the greasy, thinning hair on the top of his head and pounded the hands with the bone. I beat them away from his face and began swinging at his short, fat, tyrannosaurus arms. Guy's limbs began to writhe over his head, simultaneously trying to protect his head and avoid the blows. I had to climb over the counter to keep a hold on him. I kept swinging, moving up the flailing arms back to his head. His arms soon became too beaten to cover up his head, and there was nothing to protect the dog toy from cleaving skin away from the browbone. The strikes beat him down to the floor behind the counter.
    Guy bled into the carpet and began to sob. The sound was like a child crying in the night. They were heavy sobs accompanied by heavy snorts. The sobbing meant I did my job right. He was hurt, bad but not out, or worse, dead. I didn't waste time checking on him; he was a man who had covered up countless beatings and worse. Why did he deserve better than he gave to his