into position, leaning casually
against their Chevy truck. The wetness of the snow seeps into my jeans, and I
shiver. My legs feel weak, but I keep a bored expression on my face.
Penguin
seems to grow taller as he approaches. He might even have an inch or two on
Tarren but only half the muscle mass. An ugly red welt stands out on the side
of his head. The Asian guy looks young, maybe not even out of his teens yet. His
long face is twisted into a snarl. His tiger mask reminds me that he was my
favorite in that pathetic video that they made. He’d bungled the script,
shouting about how he was going to kill all the angels they found.
I smile at
the memory, but God help them if they’ve hurt my sister.
They spot me
and their steps slow. The tall one looks confused, and the short one just gets
angrier.
“Oh, I get
it,” I call out to them. “The masks are like some kind of living artistic
statement. Something about the animal trapped within. Very deep.”
The tall one
frowns and stops. They haven’t put two and two together, and I don’t blame
them. They came here looking for a roided out angel. I don’t exactly fit the
bill.
“That’s our
truck,” the tall one says. He moves to do something – maybe just open the
driver’s side door, maybe try to shove me back. I take one swift step toward
him, grab his arm, and throw my shoulder into his sternum. The beauty of this
little trick is that I use his own momentum to flip him over my shoulder. He
lands hard, the breeze whooshing out of his lungs.
“Guess they
don’t teach you that in art class,” I say.
Tiger has
smartly reassessed the situation. He steps back and quickly struggles out of
his big jacket. When he moves into a basic defense pose I’m almost glad for it.
This shouldn’t be so easy. A large chain hangs around his waist like some kind
of retro belt.
“Heavy
pants, huh?” I say.
“You wanna fight,
asshole?” he spits out in this deep, low voice that’s all show. “Try me out.”
“Okey-dokey.”
This is going to be fun. Sure, I may be at the end of my strength, and maybe
every bone in my body aches with fever, but I’ve been training in martial arts
my entire life – judo, karate, tai chi, krav magna, MMA. You name it, and I’ve
practically imprinted it on my DNA. And, unlike the majority of chain-belt-wearing
ass hats I might mention, I don’t spend two nights a week sparring at a dojo in
the local strip mall. I get plenty of real world practice against guys who are
a hellauve lot faster and stronger than me.
Tiger wants
to take the first punch, so I let him have it. He edges closer and tries to go
high with an elbow strike. He’s terrible about broadcasting his moves and not
nearly as fast as he thinks.
Not fast like
me.
I twist away
from the incoming blow, spin behind him, and give him a little push to get him
off balance. He stumbles forward, and I laugh. He’s so pissed, I expect to see
steam coming out of his ears. He grits his teeth and comes at me again. This
time he feints a round house but drops low to try and sweep my feet from under
me. I duck the arm, grab his leg, and pull. He goes down on his back and rolls.
Not a terrible recovery. He might be salvageable.
Just as Tiger
makes it to his hands and knees, I give him a knee to the ribs – not that hard,
but it doesn’t take much. He goes down with a grunt.
“Stay,” I
tell him and try really hard not to grin so much. Probably not great for his
ego.
I turn to
Penguin, who’s managed to pull himself into a sitting position against the
tire. He wheezes like an 80-year-old pack-a-day smoker. Something tells me that
he’s my best bet for information. Just as I open my mouth to start my first
round of questioning, I hear Tiger’s feet scramble against the ground behind me,
the warning clink of his chain. I wait, allowing him to ready his
attack. Just as he takes his first step, I turn, duck the wild swing, and give
him an upper cut to the
against their Chevy truck. The wetness of the snow seeps into my jeans, and I
shiver. My legs feel weak, but I keep a bored expression on my face.
Penguin
seems to grow taller as he approaches. He might even have an inch or two on
Tarren but only half the muscle mass. An ugly red welt stands out on the side
of his head. The Asian guy looks young, maybe not even out of his teens yet. His
long face is twisted into a snarl. His tiger mask reminds me that he was my
favorite in that pathetic video that they made. He’d bungled the script,
shouting about how he was going to kill all the angels they found.
I smile at
the memory, but God help them if they’ve hurt my sister.
They spot me
and their steps slow. The tall one looks confused, and the short one just gets
angrier.
“Oh, I get
it,” I call out to them. “The masks are like some kind of living artistic
statement. Something about the animal trapped within. Very deep.”
The tall one
frowns and stops. They haven’t put two and two together, and I don’t blame
them. They came here looking for a roided out angel. I don’t exactly fit the
bill.
“That’s our
truck,” the tall one says. He moves to do something – maybe just open the
driver’s side door, maybe try to shove me back. I take one swift step toward
him, grab his arm, and throw my shoulder into his sternum. The beauty of this
little trick is that I use his own momentum to flip him over my shoulder. He
lands hard, the breeze whooshing out of his lungs.
“Guess they
don’t teach you that in art class,” I say.
Tiger has
smartly reassessed the situation. He steps back and quickly struggles out of
his big jacket. When he moves into a basic defense pose I’m almost glad for it.
This shouldn’t be so easy. A large chain hangs around his waist like some kind
of retro belt.
“Heavy
pants, huh?” I say.
“You wanna fight,
asshole?” he spits out in this deep, low voice that’s all show. “Try me out.”
“Okey-dokey.”
This is going to be fun. Sure, I may be at the end of my strength, and maybe
every bone in my body aches with fever, but I’ve been training in martial arts
my entire life – judo, karate, tai chi, krav magna, MMA. You name it, and I’ve
practically imprinted it on my DNA. And, unlike the majority of chain-belt-wearing
ass hats I might mention, I don’t spend two nights a week sparring at a dojo in
the local strip mall. I get plenty of real world practice against guys who are
a hellauve lot faster and stronger than me.
Tiger wants
to take the first punch, so I let him have it. He edges closer and tries to go
high with an elbow strike. He’s terrible about broadcasting his moves and not
nearly as fast as he thinks.
Not fast like
me.
I twist away
from the incoming blow, spin behind him, and give him a little push to get him
off balance. He stumbles forward, and I laugh. He’s so pissed, I expect to see
steam coming out of his ears. He grits his teeth and comes at me again. This
time he feints a round house but drops low to try and sweep my feet from under
me. I duck the arm, grab his leg, and pull. He goes down on his back and rolls.
Not a terrible recovery. He might be salvageable.
Just as Tiger
makes it to his hands and knees, I give him a knee to the ribs – not that hard,
but it doesn’t take much. He goes down with a grunt.
“Stay,” I
tell him and try really hard not to grin so much. Probably not great for his
ego.
I turn to
Penguin, who’s managed to pull himself into a sitting position against the
tire. He wheezes like an 80-year-old pack-a-day smoker. Something tells me that
he’s my best bet for information. Just as I open my mouth to start my first
round of questioning, I hear Tiger’s feet scramble against the ground behind me,
the warning clink of his chain. I wait, allowing him to ready his
attack. Just as he takes his first step, I turn, duck the wild swing, and give
him an upper cut to the
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