Sunday Silence
That bobbing left hand, it looked like he was masturbating an imaginary dinosaur, only when it came, I got a money-shot-right-hook to the chin. I stood there, flat-footed, ignorant of the sport and pissed. Dad got out of
I hated Reese on so many levels. He was a musician in the loosest sense. He butchered others art like a Nazi, all leads, all the time-- rhythm was for pussies, like helmets or condoms. I knew guys that didn’t play rhythm, but they played on acoustic guitars, with nylon strings and at reasonable hours. When Reese turned his amp on all the neighborhood dogs tried to drown themselves in the outdoor pools. They needed a hero. I was doing this for them.
We circled each other a half dozen times before squaring up. He would approach right foot forward, left hand bobbing rhythmically. The moment the left hand stopped bobbing it would stab into my chest, as the right would hook above my left shoulder, connecting with my lower jaw.
I withstood several of the masturbatory assaults without faltering. I was a sponge. He was born with a six-pack and defined biceps, which stood in glaring contrast to my undeveloped physique and thunder thighs. I didn’t know anything about boxing. I was a coward. Ask my Dad.
He stepped forward again, as I regained composure. He circled, left hand still bobbing.
I thought about the dogs. I thought about the cloud of noise reverberating from his guitar amp on Sunday mornings. I thought about the four years of hell I had endured since I first saw the
The hand bobbed, bobbed, bobbed and stopped. Before the dinosaur lost it, I jumped back. His fist fell just short of my sweat ridden face. He stumbled forward with the momentum of his punch. I caught my feet, balled my fist and, with every ounce of life I had, plunged it directly into his face. It felt soft and warm as it smashed against his face, skin and bone against skin and bone. He screamed-- an awful, blood curdling, dog drowning scream. His eye was filled with blood.
Save a few stray vessels, and most of his Italian dignity, everything healed fine. I never apologized. Dogs love me. Sundays are sacred.
3 comments:
you should write more.
who is this?
Ashton never thought you could write. Good job on your strories, you're very good at keeping the reader interested atleast in my opinion. I enjoyed much.
Post a Comment