Grinder by Mike Knowles Page B

livid, and his wild right hook proved what they were telling me. Denis was fighting for his life, but his sloppy style and heavy breathing let me know he had lost his head and was just running on rage. I wasn't like him. My chest rose and fell evenly; the surprise of his playing possum had long worn off. I stepped into his wild hook, making the fist no real threat at all. The hook turned into a grab once it couldn't hurt me with bone-on-bone blunt force. Denis pulled my body closer, forcing me into a headlock. He was surprisingly strong for someone who looked so out of shape. My neck compressed under his damp armpit. The pressure wasn't immediately threatening because my right hand guarded my throat, but the choke would eventually slow me down. My fist punched repeatedly back and forth like a piston, battering Denis's ribs, but the folds of flesh and his loss of sanity made everything I did ineffective. He cranked harder on my neck and rested more of his weight on my frame. He was screaming in my ear as he tried to wrestle me down like a steer.
    The pressure, combined with the hot, smelly air under Denis's arm, began to make it hard to breathe. I gave up punching and grabbed a fistful of his right pant leg. Holding his leg in place, I moved my right hand away from protecting my neck. The pressure surged higher without my arm pushing against the choke, and my vision began to dim around the edges as the air was forced out of my throat. With the last seconds of consciousness I had left, I pulled Denis's gun from my waistband. In one motion, I cocked the hammer back and put the barrel of the small revolver against his shin bone, right between knee and ankle. I pulled the trigger and felt the smelly vise release my neck. Denis was still screaming, but the pitch was higher now that he was on the floor with his shin bone splintered.
    The sound of Denis's screams gave his father strength, and Guy surged off his back onto his hands and knees. Before he could get any higher I cut him off, pistol-whipping him on the top of his head. The greasy hair on his scalp offered no protection, and his body slammed to the floor.
    Denis still screamed while he clawed at his leg. He tried to cradle his leg, but each time he attempted to touch his shin his hands flinched away as though he was touching fire. I walked past him and righted the chair. I looked at it for a few seconds and realized two things: the chair would no longer help me do what I needed to do, and I had to shut Denis up. In this neighbourhood most people would ignore screaming, especially those who knew what really went on in the back room of the store. But if I let Denis do enough yelling, eventually someone would call for help, either from the cops or from the boss, Dom the Bomb. I picked up one of the pieces of extension cord and walked back to Denis. I flipped him over and looped the cord around his face like he was a horse. I put my foot in the centre of his back and pulled with two hands. The cord fought against his strained lips and teeth until it gave up a little slack as it slid into his mouth. I choked up on the cord and held it in my left hand as I pulled Denis's left arm behind his back. I stepped on the wrist with my heavy boot and heard him whimper a little louder against his gag. With the one hand immobilized, I turned back to his bit and tied it off behind his head. Once it was tied, he could no longer scream — he was only able to grunt through his bit as I finished tying him up.
    I kept my foot on his left arm and pulled his right hard behind his back. I put a knee on his spine, brought Denis's hands together, and tied them with extension cord, feeling no remorse for his predicament. His feet followed without a fight. Any movement of his feet would have meant excruciating pain for his damaged shin. Once he was restrained, I flipped him over and looked at the gunshot wound. Blood leaked through the hole the bullet made, and the fabric of his pants tented on jagged