Friday, January 27, 2012
9. Crowd Control
Before Pierre could count two he heard and felt Gerry’s forehead break his nose. Pierre dropped to the ground.
"Fuck you, fatty!" Gerry yelled, kicking Pierre in the gut.
Pierre felt nothing but the crowd around them getting closer, laughing louder. He could smell the mud off the boys’ boots at the periphery of his sight. He knew the girls would be at the back, peering over shoulders pretending to be disgusted. He winced and looked down, noticed Gerry was wearing shiny black rubber boots. What a loser. Pierre caught and yanked Gerry’s foot as he tried to kick him again. He climbed on top and sat on Gerry's chest, pounded his face.
His own pain was sinking in now and he felt blood rolling from his nose over his lips. His head was ringing. That was fine. He had to win the crowd back. That was the main thing.
"Up - yours - with - a - rubber - hose," Pierre grunted, one word for each time he punched. The crowd was laughing with him now. Every punch got harder.
Gerry was kneeing Pierre's back but it didn’t hurt. Pierre wailed on him harder. It was easy to connect; Gerry didn’t protect his face and he kept his eyes closed.
"Say uncle," Pierre said.
Gerry opened his eyes. There was blood all over his face and a drop of it rolled into his eyes. He didn’t blink. "Hockey sucks," he panted.
Sadly, Pierre was going to have to kill this kid. "OK," he said, pulling his fist back.
When you are a kid and you're fighting.In the heat of the moment, you would kill. If you could.
Cuby: Indeed, law of the jungle and lord of the flies.
Yeah, during my recent hospitalization, I went through quite a few changes, which you so presciently described as "Hem(m)ingway calling you toward the light, Dylan Thomas waving you back."
Oddly, while I was ill, it did indeed seem like that,though I do lean more toward the mellow Welshman. His memories are those of an innocent childhood not as death- obsessed as Hemingway's, or that of the average antique Egyptian. :)