A huge thanks to S-dog for this!
Friday, May 30, 2008
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Friday, May 23, 2008
2nd installment: L.C.C.
I was out “scouting” with Martin. Not only did Martin not trust me. He did not want to be out with me. Martin spit on the ground as conversation.
“You want to go this way?” I ask.
Spit.
“You want to follow that guy?”
Spit.
Martin wanted IN the house. Martin wanted to do something big. When Martin sparred, he wanted 3 guys at once, 4 guys at once. Nothing was enough. He looked like a guy that had a moustache at 12. He had a low hairline, chest hair crawling up his neck, arms and legs black with hair. You could see his pubes growing down his legs. He was all testosterone, and had a crazy look in his eyes. Psychopath. A look that said “I want to kill”… probably had that look when he sang “Happy Birthday”.
“Well, I mean they didn’t say we couldn’t go in,” I said.
Spit.
The kitchen door is unlocked. Martin is very stealthy. I feel like we are playing at being Ninjas…but my adrenalin is pumping, my breath fast.
Two guys are on a sofa. A white and black guy. Not the typical kill-issue here. Both look like marines.
“I don’t know if we’re supposed to kill these guys,” I say in a low voice.
Martin stands and takes off his shoes. He walks up to them barefoot, pulls his shirt off and throws it on the floor. “GET UP!”
“What the fuck?” the black guy says.
“FIGHT OR DIE!”
The white guy is up and Martin spins, kicks him in the solar plexus. The guy stumbles back. The black guy is just sitting, looking resentful. The white guy runs at Martin. Martin assumes a boxing stance. Punches him hard. In the face. The white guy shakes it off.
“GET UP” Martin yells at the black guy.
He gets up slowly.
“FIGHT!”
The black guy comes to life.
Martin smiles. The two of them start to punch and kick at Martin. Martin parries each punch. He looks at me and smiles. A Vietnamese guy now comes from the kitchen area. Martin smiles big at me. Maybe he doesn’t hate me really I think. The white guy picks up a pool cue to use, but it is knocked free quickly. Martin leaps and catches the black guy behind the head with his foot.. tumbles him right into the white guy. Then turns to the Vietnamese guy, this kid who barely looks sixteen, and who is now in a fighting stance. Martin sweeps the kids legs out from under him and catches the head between his own legs. He snaps the kid’s neck between two slabs of hairy muscle.
The black guys voice goes up, “You just snapped his neck!”
Now yours, Martin says almost softly.
They start to run. Martin trips the white guy by grabbing at his legs. He pulls the guy backward and punches his skull, stunning him. He is still in motion as he catches the black guy by his shirt, ripping it almost off, pulling him into a sleeper. The black guy, who looks to be pretty well-muscled himself, squeals like a pig. Martin drags him back to where the white guy is getting up. He takes each one of their necks in an arm. He faces them towards me.
He is taking his time. I’m looking in their faces. They still look like they think they have a chance. Black guy tries to look tough, pissed, sputtering obscenities…. White guy looks like he wants his Daddy. Martin pulls his head back with the effort at cracking their necks. Martin’s own neck is a pyramid of muscle, now…striated with veins. His face turns red. His forearms are almost inhuman looking. The black guy is now giving up, he looks into the white guys eyes. The white guy is almost stroking the bicep around his neck. Martin then relaxes his hold. The black guy grabs his dick, then with a quick jerk, Martin snaps their necks, both at once.
He adjusts his posture and holds them up in his arms. Both have a look of dumb surprise on their face. He looks at me, but isn’t smiling.
“Impressive,” I say.
He drops them, spits.
“Now you,” he says.
I back up.
“No. I mean. You go. It’s your turn.”
“Did you leave anyone?”
“They can get more.”
“I don’t know… after seeing this… I just don’t know if I can do….”
“What did you come here for?”
I had to kill. It was do it or be exposed and very likely be put into an exhibition fight myself. I picked at random. I knew it had to be random. No choice involved. Of course, my random choice turned out to be someone a foot taller than myself, probably a basketball star in his high school days, a junkie or a fugitive or something now that got his ass snared. Red hair, goatee, shoulders like grapefruits, long biceps, long neck. He was shirtless and in shorts. His legs could have severed my body, I knew guys like that in school…bicyclists, long legs, but huge quads, and big round calves.
I had to keep myself away from those legs. I thought I would drop down on the guy from above, like Tom Cruise in MI….get my legs around his neck and finish it quickly. My legs are short but I get some stares when I do squats at the gym. I can lift a lot with my legs. And I don’t have to see the guy’s face when I do it.
I gave Martin the plan. We found a balcony that I could hide beneath. Martin was supposed to lure the long skinny fuck under there and position him just right… otherwise he said I’d be waiting all night for him to get underneath where I could drop on him.
It went pretty well. I watched Martin’s face as I tried to snap the guys neck with my legs and hang onto the balcony deck too. He looked like he was watching football, but just maybe a second down….. and nine. The guy finally pulled me down. Something happened when I was on the ground grappling with this guy.
I wanted to see his face. It was fucking sick, but I fucking had to see the eyes when I snapped his neck. I was almost there, the guy was groggy. I stopped, unwrapped my legs from his neck and climbed on top of him, belly to belly. I looked in his face, looked at that long neck. I wrapped my hands around it. I squeezed. The tongue came out, the face went red. He surfaced from unconsciousness, and looked in my eyes with panic. Sheer panic. It felt like the guy was getting a hard-on. I backed up so I could get his face in focus. I saw my forearms were all veins. That thick long neck. I thought of a guy in school that I hated that had that same neck. I kind of got a hard-on. I strangled that fuck dead. I heard the gurgle, the wheeze, the desperate whisper. I knew he was dead, but I wanted it to keep on going. Then I missed not hearing that snap that the other guys got off on.
“Should I snap his neck, too?” I asked Martin.
“He won’t mind.”
I gave the head a twist, just like in the fucking movies. It was easy if you go far enough. The neck was then something soft and pliant, almost sensual.
“Your dick is hard,” Martin said. “That’s a problem you got there.”
I suppose it was.
“You want to go this way?” I ask.
Spit.
“You want to follow that guy?”
Spit.
Martin wanted IN the house. Martin wanted to do something big. When Martin sparred, he wanted 3 guys at once, 4 guys at once. Nothing was enough. He looked like a guy that had a moustache at 12. He had a low hairline, chest hair crawling up his neck, arms and legs black with hair. You could see his pubes growing down his legs. He was all testosterone, and had a crazy look in his eyes. Psychopath. A look that said “I want to kill”… probably had that look when he sang “Happy Birthday”.
“Well, I mean they didn’t say we couldn’t go in,” I said.
Spit.
The kitchen door is unlocked. Martin is very stealthy. I feel like we are playing at being Ninjas…but my adrenalin is pumping, my breath fast.
Two guys are on a sofa. A white and black guy. Not the typical kill-issue here. Both look like marines.
“I don’t know if we’re supposed to kill these guys,” I say in a low voice.
Martin stands and takes off his shoes. He walks up to them barefoot, pulls his shirt off and throws it on the floor. “GET UP!”
“What the fuck?” the black guy says.
“FIGHT OR DIE!”
The white guy is up and Martin spins, kicks him in the solar plexus. The guy stumbles back. The black guy is just sitting, looking resentful. The white guy runs at Martin. Martin assumes a boxing stance. Punches him hard. In the face. The white guy shakes it off.
“GET UP” Martin yells at the black guy.
He gets up slowly.
“FIGHT!”
The black guy comes to life.
Martin smiles. The two of them start to punch and kick at Martin. Martin parries each punch. He looks at me and smiles. A Vietnamese guy now comes from the kitchen area. Martin smiles big at me. Maybe he doesn’t hate me really I think. The white guy picks up a pool cue to use, but it is knocked free quickly. Martin leaps and catches the black guy behind the head with his foot.. tumbles him right into the white guy. Then turns to the Vietnamese guy, this kid who barely looks sixteen, and who is now in a fighting stance. Martin sweeps the kids legs out from under him and catches the head between his own legs. He snaps the kid’s neck between two slabs of hairy muscle.
The black guys voice goes up, “You just snapped his neck!”
Now yours, Martin says almost softly.
They start to run. Martin trips the white guy by grabbing at his legs. He pulls the guy backward and punches his skull, stunning him. He is still in motion as he catches the black guy by his shirt, ripping it almost off, pulling him into a sleeper. The black guy, who looks to be pretty well-muscled himself, squeals like a pig. Martin drags him back to where the white guy is getting up. He takes each one of their necks in an arm. He faces them towards me.
He is taking his time. I’m looking in their faces. They still look like they think they have a chance. Black guy tries to look tough, pissed, sputtering obscenities…. White guy looks like he wants his Daddy. Martin pulls his head back with the effort at cracking their necks. Martin’s own neck is a pyramid of muscle, now…striated with veins. His face turns red. His forearms are almost inhuman looking. The black guy is now giving up, he looks into the white guys eyes. The white guy is almost stroking the bicep around his neck. Martin then relaxes his hold. The black guy grabs his dick, then with a quick jerk, Martin snaps their necks, both at once.
He adjusts his posture and holds them up in his arms. Both have a look of dumb surprise on their face. He looks at me, but isn’t smiling.
“Impressive,” I say.
He drops them, spits.
“Now you,” he says.
I back up.
“No. I mean. You go. It’s your turn.”
“Did you leave anyone?”
“They can get more.”
“I don’t know… after seeing this… I just don’t know if I can do….”
“What did you come here for?”
I had to kill. It was do it or be exposed and very likely be put into an exhibition fight myself. I picked at random. I knew it had to be random. No choice involved. Of course, my random choice turned out to be someone a foot taller than myself, probably a basketball star in his high school days, a junkie or a fugitive or something now that got his ass snared. Red hair, goatee, shoulders like grapefruits, long biceps, long neck. He was shirtless and in shorts. His legs could have severed my body, I knew guys like that in school…bicyclists, long legs, but huge quads, and big round calves.
I had to keep myself away from those legs. I thought I would drop down on the guy from above, like Tom Cruise in MI….get my legs around his neck and finish it quickly. My legs are short but I get some stares when I do squats at the gym. I can lift a lot with my legs. And I don’t have to see the guy’s face when I do it.
I gave Martin the plan. We found a balcony that I could hide beneath. Martin was supposed to lure the long skinny fuck under there and position him just right… otherwise he said I’d be waiting all night for him to get underneath where I could drop on him.
It went pretty well. I watched Martin’s face as I tried to snap the guys neck with my legs and hang onto the balcony deck too. He looked like he was watching football, but just maybe a second down….. and nine. The guy finally pulled me down. Something happened when I was on the ground grappling with this guy.
I wanted to see his face. It was fucking sick, but I fucking had to see the eyes when I snapped his neck. I was almost there, the guy was groggy. I stopped, unwrapped my legs from his neck and climbed on top of him, belly to belly. I looked in his face, looked at that long neck. I wrapped my hands around it. I squeezed. The tongue came out, the face went red. He surfaced from unconsciousness, and looked in my eyes with panic. Sheer panic. It felt like the guy was getting a hard-on. I backed up so I could get his face in focus. I saw my forearms were all veins. That thick long neck. I thought of a guy in school that I hated that had that same neck. I kind of got a hard-on. I strangled that fuck dead. I heard the gurgle, the wheeze, the desperate whisper. I knew he was dead, but I wanted it to keep on going. Then I missed not hearing that snap that the other guys got off on.
“Should I snap his neck, too?” I asked Martin.
“He won’t mind.”
I gave the head a twist, just like in the fucking movies. It was easy if you go far enough. The neck was then something soft and pliant, almost sensual.
“Your dick is hard,” Martin said. “That’s a problem you got there.”
I suppose it was.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
New story by Sean - "L.C.C." (1st part)
You could tell who the “government contractors” were. There were 6 of them- all looking like firemen: aviator glasses and mustaches…or clean-shaven/bad haircuts… muscled, humorless. There were one or two thug types who probably acted as bodyguards for some suspect businessmen. One definite Mafioso: a thick-necked Guido, almost cross-eyed thick. There were four self-described professional fighters- most were fucking mean guys. There was an Iowa farmer if I’ve ever seen one, and a guy, almost fifty that looked like a Kansas Baptist preacher: straight blond hair, weathered face, good looks sacrificed to some unrewarding principle. There were 3 sick fucks, not that the others weren’t sick fucks, but these guys were here in non-professional capacity. They just wanted to snap some dude’s neck or watch someone else snap some dude’s neck and then go masturbate with the door locked while we waited to get in the bathroom. That’s conjecture. I was a reporter. There was only 1 bathroom on each floor in our compound. I can conjecture.
The sick fucks tried to make us think they weren’t sick fucks by being everyone’s friend, cracking jokes. One guy, Ben, said, out of the blue as we’re walking away from two guys spectacularly offed in front of the whole crew, sighing out their last breath, “What is L.C.C. anyway…. I mean I know that L.C. is lethal combat. What is it? Lethal Combat Corporation? Lethal Combat Company? Lethal Combat Co-operative?”
The other sick fucks laughed. I was as stoic as the mercenaries…um, contractors. But it was pretty funny, especially as I had to get that final C for my story.
This place, in East Texas, was like a set-piece from a Chuck Norris flick: a house, with terraces, some dense woods around it. There was a dormitory behind the house for the poor shits that my friends here were paying to kill. We clients lived past the woods, across a creek, through an electrified, razor wire topped fence, on a ranch where we trained and salivated for the next young Mexican or back-packer neck. They weren’t all Mexicans or back-packers. There were some Vietnamese, probably from the insular fishing communities down here. There were some fugitives, but a few kids, the Anglo ones, just looked like guys that had gotten too wasted at Burning Man- lanky, shaggy college burn-outs.
The Mexicans were just recruited off the streets, loaded in a van and smuggled up here with the promise of a job guarding a rich man’s house. They were unqualified for security, they were untrained as fighters but they always fought like they had a chance. They just didn’t stand in dumb amazement if one of the guys wrapped an arm around their neck and slowly crushed their windpipe. One of the white kids, one of the first guys I saw killed here, just stood in the same spot and looked kind of surprised, mouth open in an “Oh!” as one of the mercenaries, a short, over-muscled runt, Pat, walked up to him, face-on calling him a pathetic fuck, giving him an elbow in the face, which probably looked better in Pat’s mind, kicking out one knee and wrapping his short 18 inch bicep around the kid’s throat. Pat kept up a ‘fuck you’ taunt, spitting words in the guy’s ear, we could see the kid’s curly blond hair puff out from Pat’s breath- as we hear the soft tissue go, then the vertebrae. The kid never fought.
“Appetizer” Pat said after he let the kid, his neck crushed and broken fall to the ground. He laughed.
“Your pythons still hungry after that snack?” one smart-ass sick fuck asked him.
Pat stared him silent.
Some guys were here for the challenge and would take on a cocky Latino, very macho, strong-looking guy. They’d draw out the fight. Give the guy a chance to breathe. They’d back off, assume a stance and let the guy come up with something, anything. One big Mexican guy, must have been a lumberjack, if they’ve got them, a guy that didn’t even fit in his wife-beater, was acting like a sentry on the north lawn. It was a sweltering afternoon, cloudless. This guy’s tight wife-beater was soaked through. He looked bored and pissed. One of the thug guys, drug-lord bodyguard, someone who probably stood sentry himself, said “Let me have him.”
No one argued. The thug was giving away forty pounds and a couple of inches. He was beefy, but it was HGH/Creatine/Protein powder beef. I guess he wanted to prove something outside the gym. He led with a flying kick to the spine. It might have moved the hulking Mexican a foot, but if it didn’t hurt him, it pissed him off. The thug then leapt with a spinning kick to the face. The Mexican stayed up, then with a curse, dived at and took the thug down. They were on the ground for most of the rest of it, until the thug got the Mexican’s back and the guy got to his feet, roaring. This brought one of the Vietnamese sentries around from the West lawn. Saul, the leanest of the pro fighters, pulled his shirt off and headed to intercept. The Viet yelled in his own language, must have been sharing a cigarette on duty, which was punishable, no irony intended, and another Asian came from the same direction. When a merc moved to take that new guy on, one of the other fighters held him back.
“Hell, two of them don’t even add up to that one fucking Mexican.”
The gym-thick thug was trying to strangle the huge Mexican neck with one arm and force the head forward with the other. Then he tried to snap it in the strangle hold, but that bull neck wasn’t giving. Meanwhile, as is said, back to our right…The first Vietnamese just flew into the fight with Saul. Saul, whose body was just bone, muscle and skin moved in for the guy’s waist, picked up the guy in one arm, put the other hand on the guy’s throat and made it look like he was tossing the guy by his head, upended on the lawn. It looked great… didn’t hurt the guy a bit. But while he lay figuring out he wasn’t hurt, the second Viet was already in Saul’s face. Saul just looked the guy in the eyes, shook his head, reached up like it was a fucking handshake and twisted and broke the second guy’s neck without any pretense of giving the guy a shot. “Crick”… like separating chopsticks. Chin twisted about six inches up and behind the collarbone….Then “CRACKK” We had forgot the fucking Mex’can lumberjack. It sounded like a tree being felled, his neck rumbled when the thug broke it. We looked back. The Mexican’s body was on the ground, but his face was still right in front of us, his eyes were rolled back into his head and his tongue was hanging out, his face sagged.
The gym thug ratcheted the head around, shouting, “YEAH!”
“Crick”. Saul had the first Viet on the ground, a knee on his chest and was twisting the neck around like he was giving an adjustment with sensitivity. The look on Saul’s face was bliss, concentration, and personal satisfaction. I’ve seen that look, usually after orgasms.
These were the first. I have to admit, I was made nauseous, but strange to say, it was just from adrenalin and excitement. I tried to feel morally culpable, but it was just a weak pretense.
It can’t have been much later when Saul, who was generally pretty quiet, wanted to take out another guy that night, and a heated debate arose over whether we each paid for one kill or if , as Saul said we didn’t work on quota, but each to his own capacity Naturally I had to avoid killing one of these guys myself, but I couldn’t say, “Hey you take mine!”
My position only got weirder when I was out at 3 or 4 a.m. pretending to scout a dawn raid on our fictitious enemy… and I was on patrol with one of the sick fucks, a handsome guy with too perfect a haircut and he spotted, jumped and dragged a young shirtless Latino by his neck into a utility shed. After a few minutes of waiting, I opened the door. The head was at that unnatural angle, the tongue out, the neck had been broken, but the model was licking the guy’s nipples. He had a boner. He smiled when he stood up and said to me, “You say anything and I’ll break your neck”.
“I guess you’d want to kiss my nipples, too?” I asked.
He smirked.
No one questioned my abilities to my face. I played ball in college. I was still this side of two bucks, maybe 195, mostly shoulders… genetic. I am Jewish, hairy and built like a sort of nerdish athlete. I guess I’d asked myself, as all red-blooded males do, usually when they’re 14, could I snap some guy’s neck?
I guess I’d find out.
The sick fucks tried to make us think they weren’t sick fucks by being everyone’s friend, cracking jokes. One guy, Ben, said, out of the blue as we’re walking away from two guys spectacularly offed in front of the whole crew, sighing out their last breath, “What is L.C.C. anyway…. I mean I know that L.C. is lethal combat. What is it? Lethal Combat Corporation? Lethal Combat Company? Lethal Combat Co-operative?”
The other sick fucks laughed. I was as stoic as the mercenaries…um, contractors. But it was pretty funny, especially as I had to get that final C for my story.
This place, in East Texas, was like a set-piece from a Chuck Norris flick: a house, with terraces, some dense woods around it. There was a dormitory behind the house for the poor shits that my friends here were paying to kill. We clients lived past the woods, across a creek, through an electrified, razor wire topped fence, on a ranch where we trained and salivated for the next young Mexican or back-packer neck. They weren’t all Mexicans or back-packers. There were some Vietnamese, probably from the insular fishing communities down here. There were some fugitives, but a few kids, the Anglo ones, just looked like guys that had gotten too wasted at Burning Man- lanky, shaggy college burn-outs.
The Mexicans were just recruited off the streets, loaded in a van and smuggled up here with the promise of a job guarding a rich man’s house. They were unqualified for security, they were untrained as fighters but they always fought like they had a chance. They just didn’t stand in dumb amazement if one of the guys wrapped an arm around their neck and slowly crushed their windpipe. One of the white kids, one of the first guys I saw killed here, just stood in the same spot and looked kind of surprised, mouth open in an “Oh!” as one of the mercenaries, a short, over-muscled runt, Pat, walked up to him, face-on calling him a pathetic fuck, giving him an elbow in the face, which probably looked better in Pat’s mind, kicking out one knee and wrapping his short 18 inch bicep around the kid’s throat. Pat kept up a ‘fuck you’ taunt, spitting words in the guy’s ear, we could see the kid’s curly blond hair puff out from Pat’s breath- as we hear the soft tissue go, then the vertebrae. The kid never fought.
“Appetizer” Pat said after he let the kid, his neck crushed and broken fall to the ground. He laughed.
“Your pythons still hungry after that snack?” one smart-ass sick fuck asked him.
Pat stared him silent.
Some guys were here for the challenge and would take on a cocky Latino, very macho, strong-looking guy. They’d draw out the fight. Give the guy a chance to breathe. They’d back off, assume a stance and let the guy come up with something, anything. One big Mexican guy, must have been a lumberjack, if they’ve got them, a guy that didn’t even fit in his wife-beater, was acting like a sentry on the north lawn. It was a sweltering afternoon, cloudless. This guy’s tight wife-beater was soaked through. He looked bored and pissed. One of the thug guys, drug-lord bodyguard, someone who probably stood sentry himself, said “Let me have him.”
No one argued. The thug was giving away forty pounds and a couple of inches. He was beefy, but it was HGH/Creatine/Protein powder beef. I guess he wanted to prove something outside the gym. He led with a flying kick to the spine. It might have moved the hulking Mexican a foot, but if it didn’t hurt him, it pissed him off. The thug then leapt with a spinning kick to the face. The Mexican stayed up, then with a curse, dived at and took the thug down. They were on the ground for most of the rest of it, until the thug got the Mexican’s back and the guy got to his feet, roaring. This brought one of the Vietnamese sentries around from the West lawn. Saul, the leanest of the pro fighters, pulled his shirt off and headed to intercept. The Viet yelled in his own language, must have been sharing a cigarette on duty, which was punishable, no irony intended, and another Asian came from the same direction. When a merc moved to take that new guy on, one of the other fighters held him back.
“Hell, two of them don’t even add up to that one fucking Mexican.”
The gym-thick thug was trying to strangle the huge Mexican neck with one arm and force the head forward with the other. Then he tried to snap it in the strangle hold, but that bull neck wasn’t giving. Meanwhile, as is said, back to our right…The first Vietnamese just flew into the fight with Saul. Saul, whose body was just bone, muscle and skin moved in for the guy’s waist, picked up the guy in one arm, put the other hand on the guy’s throat and made it look like he was tossing the guy by his head, upended on the lawn. It looked great… didn’t hurt the guy a bit. But while he lay figuring out he wasn’t hurt, the second Viet was already in Saul’s face. Saul just looked the guy in the eyes, shook his head, reached up like it was a fucking handshake and twisted and broke the second guy’s neck without any pretense of giving the guy a shot. “Crick”… like separating chopsticks. Chin twisted about six inches up and behind the collarbone….Then “CRACKK” We had forgot the fucking Mex’can lumberjack. It sounded like a tree being felled, his neck rumbled when the thug broke it. We looked back. The Mexican’s body was on the ground, but his face was still right in front of us, his eyes were rolled back into his head and his tongue was hanging out, his face sagged.
The gym thug ratcheted the head around, shouting, “YEAH!”
“Crick”. Saul had the first Viet on the ground, a knee on his chest and was twisting the neck around like he was giving an adjustment with sensitivity. The look on Saul’s face was bliss, concentration, and personal satisfaction. I’ve seen that look, usually after orgasms.
These were the first. I have to admit, I was made nauseous, but strange to say, it was just from adrenalin and excitement. I tried to feel morally culpable, but it was just a weak pretense.
It can’t have been much later when Saul, who was generally pretty quiet, wanted to take out another guy that night, and a heated debate arose over whether we each paid for one kill or if , as Saul said we didn’t work on quota, but each to his own capacity Naturally I had to avoid killing one of these guys myself, but I couldn’t say, “Hey you take mine!”
My position only got weirder when I was out at 3 or 4 a.m. pretending to scout a dawn raid on our fictitious enemy… and I was on patrol with one of the sick fucks, a handsome guy with too perfect a haircut and he spotted, jumped and dragged a young shirtless Latino by his neck into a utility shed. After a few minutes of waiting, I opened the door. The head was at that unnatural angle, the tongue out, the neck had been broken, but the model was licking the guy’s nipples. He had a boner. He smiled when he stood up and said to me, “You say anything and I’ll break your neck”.
“I guess you’d want to kiss my nipples, too?” I asked.
He smirked.
No one questioned my abilities to my face. I played ball in college. I was still this side of two bucks, maybe 195, mostly shoulders… genetic. I am Jewish, hairy and built like a sort of nerdish athlete. I guess I’d asked myself, as all red-blooded males do, usually when they’re 14, could I snap some guy’s neck?
I guess I’d find out.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
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