towards Jack.
Jack rolled his head around from right
to left, letting out a deep, sorrowful sigh. “Mark, control your
bitch before I put her in her place.”
“Like you could, asshole,” she said,
crossing her arms over her chest.
Jack turned and glared at her. “Mark,
I’m going to seriously hurt this bitch if you don’t tell her to
keep her fucking mouth shut. Now, why don’t we--”
“Leave her alone,” Mark
growled.
“Well,” Jack said, turning his head to
look at Mark. “Look who grew a pai--”
And then the helmet smashed into Jack’s
mouth.
He stumbled backwards, blood spilling
from his already swelling lips. Jack raised a hand to his mouth,
wiped it, and looked at the red in his hand. Mark looked down at
his own hand, still rattling slightly from the impact, and the bike
helmet he hadn’t even realized he’d swung. The shiver in his arm
was replaced by his heart pounding in his chest. It felt
good.
Really, really good.
The good feeling lasted only until he
looked back at Jack. Jack’s surprise had been converted to anger,
his cheeks blooming with red that nearly matched the blood dripping
from his mouth. Jack spat a bloody wad of it on the ground and
raised his fists, shuffling to one side and then springing
forward.
Jack swung wildly, and Mark barely
stepped out of the way. His dodge carried him inside the swing and
he brought the helmet up, catching Jack on the point of his chin.
His head snapped back, and Mark kicked him in the stomach, pushing
him down on his back.
“Motherfucker,” Eric said, stepping in
from Mark’s right. Mark turned and snarled. That flash of anger was
enough to make Eric’s drawn back fist waver, and Mark rewarded his
indecision by clasping the helmet in both hands and driving it
forward with all of his strength, smashing the top into Eric’s
nose. He toppled backwards, hands going to stem the sudden eruption
of blood. Eric’s foot caught on the edge of the bike rack and he
lost his balance, falling ass over elbow to the ground.
There was a high-pitched yell that gave
Mark just enough time to dodge out of the way of Jack’s berserk
charge. He crashed into the bike rack and whirled around. His blood
smeared mouth twisted in rage, eyes bulging and face purple. He
pushed off from the rack and sprung forward. Mark retreated,
backing towards the crowd of kids that had begun to
form.
Mark planted his feet, cocked back his
helmet-hand and held his other hand palm-out, fingers spread. Jack
stopped short and raised his fists again. Around them, Mark could
see more kids running to join the expanding crowd.
There had been times where Mark had
fantasized of this moment. He was usually wielding a sword or flame
thrower or a high powered rifle, but revenge was
revenge.
Destroy him. Put him down
now, once and for all.
Jack lunged forward with a jab, and
Mark stepped to the side, swatting the fist away with his free
hand. Jack swung again, and Mark ducked under it and swung the
helmet up, hitting him across the jaw. Jack staggered, and Mark
swung again, smashing him on one cheek, and then swinging
backhanded and hitting the other. Jack wobbled on his feet, hands
dropping down to his waist. With a triumphant scream, Mark swung
again, hitting Jack in the temple and driving him down on one
knee.
Mark tossed aside the helmet with
another yell and moved in for the kill.
Fist-fights and male teenage bullshit
were nothing new to Christine. The boys she knew in Boston were
practically choking themselves on it to prove whose balls were
bigger. Even “messing with the nerds” was standard fare, and
although she’d never admit it she’d done her share of laughing at
boys like Mark when they got put on the spot and started tripping
over their own social inadequacies.
She’d never seen anything like the
gleeful venom that spewed forth from Jack or the rage on his face
when Mark hit him. What erupted before her was wholly new, and as
Mark screamed in triumph after
Jack rolled his head around from right
to left, letting out a deep, sorrowful sigh. “Mark, control your
bitch before I put her in her place.”
“Like you could, asshole,” she said,
crossing her arms over her chest.
Jack turned and glared at her. “Mark,
I’m going to seriously hurt this bitch if you don’t tell her to
keep her fucking mouth shut. Now, why don’t we--”
“Leave her alone,” Mark
growled.
“Well,” Jack said, turning his head to
look at Mark. “Look who grew a pai--”
And then the helmet smashed into Jack’s
mouth.
He stumbled backwards, blood spilling
from his already swelling lips. Jack raised a hand to his mouth,
wiped it, and looked at the red in his hand. Mark looked down at
his own hand, still rattling slightly from the impact, and the bike
helmet he hadn’t even realized he’d swung. The shiver in his arm
was replaced by his heart pounding in his chest. It felt
good.
Really, really good.
The good feeling lasted only until he
looked back at Jack. Jack’s surprise had been converted to anger,
his cheeks blooming with red that nearly matched the blood dripping
from his mouth. Jack spat a bloody wad of it on the ground and
raised his fists, shuffling to one side and then springing
forward.
Jack swung wildly, and Mark barely
stepped out of the way. His dodge carried him inside the swing and
he brought the helmet up, catching Jack on the point of his chin.
His head snapped back, and Mark kicked him in the stomach, pushing
him down on his back.
“Motherfucker,” Eric said, stepping in
from Mark’s right. Mark turned and snarled. That flash of anger was
enough to make Eric’s drawn back fist waver, and Mark rewarded his
indecision by clasping the helmet in both hands and driving it
forward with all of his strength, smashing the top into Eric’s
nose. He toppled backwards, hands going to stem the sudden eruption
of blood. Eric’s foot caught on the edge of the bike rack and he
lost his balance, falling ass over elbow to the ground.
There was a high-pitched yell that gave
Mark just enough time to dodge out of the way of Jack’s berserk
charge. He crashed into the bike rack and whirled around. His blood
smeared mouth twisted in rage, eyes bulging and face purple. He
pushed off from the rack and sprung forward. Mark retreated,
backing towards the crowd of kids that had begun to
form.
Mark planted his feet, cocked back his
helmet-hand and held his other hand palm-out, fingers spread. Jack
stopped short and raised his fists again. Around them, Mark could
see more kids running to join the expanding crowd.
There had been times where Mark had
fantasized of this moment. He was usually wielding a sword or flame
thrower or a high powered rifle, but revenge was
revenge.
Destroy him. Put him down
now, once and for all.
Jack lunged forward with a jab, and
Mark stepped to the side, swatting the fist away with his free
hand. Jack swung again, and Mark ducked under it and swung the
helmet up, hitting him across the jaw. Jack staggered, and Mark
swung again, smashing him on one cheek, and then swinging
backhanded and hitting the other. Jack wobbled on his feet, hands
dropping down to his waist. With a triumphant scream, Mark swung
again, hitting Jack in the temple and driving him down on one
knee.
Mark tossed aside the helmet with
another yell and moved in for the kill.
Fist-fights and male teenage bullshit
were nothing new to Christine. The boys she knew in Boston were
practically choking themselves on it to prove whose balls were
bigger. Even “messing with the nerds” was standard fare, and
although she’d never admit it she’d done her share of laughing at
boys like Mark when they got put on the spot and started tripping
over their own social inadequacies.
She’d never seen anything like the
gleeful venom that spewed forth from Jack or the rage on his face
when Mark hit him. What erupted before her was wholly new, and as
Mark screamed in triumph after
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