A Dying Wish Read online

  In the parking lot people called out condolences, assuring us everyone knew who really won. We got into Eddy's car, a silver '74 Dodge Challenger, shut the doors. He started and revved the 440 Magnum, the big block bellowing a soothing roar. Gripped the steering wheel with both huge hands. His bulldog jaw stuck out in a smile, his French-Cajun features looking very Italian Mafioso. Chin beard and mustache dark and gleaming, eyes ominous under a thick brow. He looked over at me and suggested in a pleasant voice, “Let's find a nice crowd.”

  I smiled back. “A big one.”

  That night, around 2:00 a.m., we found ourselves on the beach in Ocean Springs, walking the length of the sea wall, looking for a large enough group of men to take our stress out on. It didn't take long. The beach was a favorite hangout for all groups of people, including the jocks we targeted and approached.

  I recall that moment vividly. The sky was clear and showed the stars far out over the dark water. The sand glowed with dim moon light. Cars and trucks lined the sea wall, doors open with interior lights showing couples kissing, drinking and grinding to the music. There must have been twenty football players in that crowd, all very familiar with free-weights, protein shakes, and any number of testosterone boosters.

  Perfect. I love a challenge. I realized some part of me was screaming suicide mission, but I bumped Eddy's elbow instead of thinking about consequences, and he grunted an affirmative.

  We walked right into the mix. At the time, I was five-ten and a ripped, highly trained one sixty-five. Eddy was five-eleven, two-fifty, a bear of a man with immense strength, and was capable of astonishing speed even though he was nearly half a century old. He had been a boxing trainer for over twenty years and that expertise made him a very dangerous person.

  We ignored the scantily clad girls that looked at us curiously. I grabbed a beer from a cooler, walked over in the middle of several muscle heads that towered over me, and shook up the bottle. Twisted off the cap, held my thumb over the mouth and sprayed Bud Light in all directions, soaking as many people as I could. Girls squealed angrily as the beer wet their hair and makeup. Guys cursed and yelled at me over the music, a Cypress Hill song that wanted you to believe being insane in the membrane was a good thing.

  I love it when the music fits the setting, don't you?

  Eddy pushed through the men that encircled me, turned and faced them with his hands up placating. “Excuse me for a moment, fellas. Before we do this, the old man needs a stretch.” He smiled and ignored the baffled looks he got, turned back to face me, and said, “Stretch my shoulders, boy.” I pulled his arms behind his back and he grunted relief. “I'm too old to chase these youngsters. Just keep pushing them toward me, okay?”

  “You got it, Old Man,” I obliged, grinning psychotically, mind already racing with moves I planned to execute on the three guys behind me. My heart stepped up the pace, eagerness consuming me.

  The loudest one in the crowd, a huge, angry dude in a Dallas Cowboys hat, stepped closer and demanded to know, “What the hell is this? Who are you assholes?”

  Eddy smiled at him. “We'll introduce ourselves in just a moment. Sorry for the delay. I'm getting old,” he said apologetically, sounding very sincere. I let go of his shoulders. He sighed, held up his big fists as only veteran fighters can. He told the hulking jock, “My name is Gonnakickyourass,” and drilled him with a left-hook that thunked an echo out across the sand, a monstrous blow that knocked the man sideways and to the ground violently, unconscious before he hit.

  I spun around and threw a right-cross in one motion, back leg straightening to push my entire body in the direction of the punch, right fist a block of iron that hit my target's chin sickeningly. He dropped, out cold, knees and head thudding on the sea wall, and I pivoted to my left, reset shoulders, driving forward with a right-hand, left-hook to the body of the closest man to me, fists biting into his soft belly like cannon shots, his warm breath spraying me from the exploding pain as I stepped to his side and behind him. I shoved two more guys, trying to make room to dance with them, but they had the misfortune to walk into Eddy's scything arms, both going down instantly. I got outside the circle, darting back in to tag a guy in the head, knocking him to his knees. I never stopped moving forward, finishing him with a hook to the ear. He collapsed, smashing beer bottles beneath him. It was like shooting fish in a barrel. I couldn't believe how easily these guys were going down.

  A tight-assed Asian chick popped up to my side, and my Johnson noticed her little boobies bouncing in a bikini top before she snarled like a thug and winged a full bottle of Corona at me. I ducked and it nailed some chick behind me, chipping her teeth. I laughed at her cry of anger then lambasted two, three more guys, punishing them with my assault. They went down, sand sticking to their bloody faces. I backed quickly out of the mix to let my shoulders recover and saw the Asian chick get punched by the girl with the broken tooth. I laughed again. I was having the time of my life.

  “Insane in the membrane/ insane, got no brain!” the music expressed in rhymes and thundering bass, fueling the chaos.

  Eddy was out on the sand, halfway to the water, half surrounded by jocks, some limping, most angry, all too wary to run back inside his range again. My trainer looked like a warrior of ancient times, a combat expert teaching the next generation how fighting men were supposed to conduct themselves in hand-to-hand. I judged he was just about to break a sweat, his white Mopar t-shirt and warm-up pants moon bright. He moved with the kind of relaxed confidence that marks a fighter with a lot of fight in him.

  I couldn't see his face clearly but knew he had a wicked smile. He feigned punches, causing his prey to jump. One guy yelled as if a quarterback had called hike and ran forward swinging wildly. He was silenced by a single uppercut.

  “Come on, boys,” Eddy said in disappointment, stepping over his victim. He shook his head sadly. “Do I need to tell y'all a story about how us old timers used to walk through snow uphill both ways? You guys fight like ninety-pound crack whores. Does anybody here have a set of balls? Raise your hand.” Several curses erupted at that, and five riled steroid freaks moved in on him. “That's right. Come to Papa,” he said, stepping in to meet them.

  Peripherally I watched and heard Eddy's concussive blows demolish the athletes as I ducked and dodged four guys that chased me back and forth between them, loosely in a diamond pattern. I danced away until my shoulders and legs had recovered, then lunged in with a four-piece combination that simply overwhelmed one of my targets, a dark haired man about my size, though older. My punches hit him so hard and so fast he couldn't react to defend himself. His eye, nose and chin compressed, head snapped back, and he wailed a gurgling sound that always follows a severely broken nose, throat filling with blood.

  I forgot all about him in an instant, relaxing to recover, lunging to my left with a feigned jab, jabbing hard right behind it at the next target's nose, dipping down and forward, twisting shoulders explosively to throw a straight-right into the soft area below the belly button, arresting his diaphragm. He forgot how to breathe and dropped, choking, gasping. One guy looked at his friends on the ground writhing in pain, looked at me, and took off running, leaping the sea wall, hurrying to his car.

  His buddy followed a second later, carrying an injured man with him.

  “Bitch,” I said, appreciative of the Odds of war. The enemy had been routed. I turned around in a circle to survey the carnage, inhaling with deep satisfaction. The concrete area around the sea wall looked like it had been in the path of a tornado. Lawn chairs, beer bottles and wrecked coolers, clothes and random accessories were strewn all over the place, around and under cars, out into the street. Most of the girls had dropped their shit and ran.

  I chortled merrily.

  Screams resounded from down by the water. Half a dozen men, and two girls, were lying in the sand in various states of pain and consciousness between me and the water.

  I hopped over the wall and followed the trail of knockout victims until a crowd of
silhouettes materialized, white highlights of moon illuminating their aggressive faces, hair, muscle-bound shoulders. The football squad was determined to take down Eddy, a challenge they've rehearsed with their own coaches in a see-who-can-tackle-the-pro exercise. If Eddy had been just a ball player they would have tackled him by now. However, you can't tackle what you can't get your hands on, and Eddy's quick defense and mule kick punches were nearly impossible to get passed.

  The weak had been culled from the herd, the very strongest of the jocks the only ones still fighting. Eddy was in no hurry. He looked so calm and poised, fists held up almost casually. Then someone would bravely get inside his range and WHAM! Out of nowhere a single blow would crack. Another one bites the dust.

  As I ran up on them, I realized the determination emanating from the athletes was part denial; they refused to believe they couldn't take down this one old man. Surely all of them together could get this geezer on the ground. I laughed because I've had the same frustrated anger on my face numerous times, while sparring with the same master that tormented them now. The pugilist guru could be infuriating because he could hit you so easily and block everything you throw at him. These guys had thrown everything they had and more at him, and have yet to land a clean blow. They were seeing red.

  Knowing they couldn't hear my approach, the soft sand and loud wind masking my steps, I crossed the distance quickly. Eddy saw me, jerked his head up and grinned. I grinned back and shoved the two guys in front of me. Startled and off balance, their flailing forms stumbled forward like two logs tumbling down the chute of a wood chipper, BZZT! BZZT! ground into refuse where Eddy's whistling fists impacted, traumatizing skin, blood vessels, muscles and organs. Bones were fractured. They flopped around on the wet sand, hurt badly. The other guys, six left, circled away from me to avoid getting shoved into the meat grinder, who stepped over his latest work and moved in their direction.

  Blue, red and yellow lights whipped back and forth across the sand, our faces and arms, accompanied by sirens blaring from the street. Our prey seemed to gain confidence now that the police were here, as if the danger had lessened because everyone was about to be arrested. They became cocky, but not stupid. With the clock running out of time and no significant points earned for their team, they left Eddy alone and turned towards me, the lesser threat, hoping to score something for the little pride they still possessed.

  The sand made my mobility nearly non-existent. Without swift foot movement the odds of me getting hit increased. I didn't care. In a very disturbing way I looked forward to feeling a few hard punches. I still had some anger and stress built up, a ball of burning emotion sitting high in my stomach, feeding my will all the juice it could handle. I wasn't about to abort my mission for a few cops. I just had to get this out of my system. Stopping now would be like masturbation without the reward.

  Two muscle heads bounded after me, sprinting for spear tackles, which told me that's the only training they've ever had, the only way their bodies know how to attack. The first one reached me and I waited until the last instant, his outstretched hands and snarling face right there, before pivoting to my right and throwing a right-uppercut under his arm, crunching my tightened fist into his chin and throat. A half-second later, my left-hook smacked solidly into his eye, closing it indefinitely. He landed on the sand screaming madly and a Mack truck hit me from the side, smashing me straight to the ground. The pain was voiced eloquently by my exploding breath and groan, sand silencing my open mouth. He held on, breathing hard, and I sensed he was either out of gas or surprised to have gotten me down, no further plan beyond the tackle, no further training or instinct.

  I pushed my face out of the sand, blind, but happy that there was an idiot on my back instead of a fighter. Spat before inhaling, struggling with his weight. The sand burned my eyes, sucking the moisture away, replacing it with bits of clay and sea grass, a concoction I could taste and smell because the fucking shit had crammed into every hole in my face. My muscles had trouble working without air, and I couldn't break the hold the guy had on me. Wrestling and grappling wasn't my forte. I had to get him off and stand up to be effective at fighting.

  I bit him. I don't mean a bite like a normal human bite. I lit his ass up like a big dog, sank my teeth into his arm like it was a warm, salty ham and snatched a plug of hairy, sweaty skin out. Blood squirted between my teeth, flooding my mouth. The acidic metal, warm redness triggered a frenzied response from my inner wolf, and my muscles swelled as the feeling of violent desire spread through the rest of me. Suddenly, I had retard strength, roaring primitive power that demanded to be channeled for one purpose: Destruction. My eyes flooded with tears. I could see again.

  The jock felt lighter, a mere irritant to be swatted away, and I spun while throwing an elbow into his ear, continuing the movement to wrap my arm around his head in a headlock. The blow and lock were very unexpected, making him panic. I took advantage of the moment. Getting my feet under me I held the lock until I was sure I could spring away from him. I let go, jumped back, planted my back foot and immediately brought it forward with a heel strike that rammed into his collarbone, breaking it audibly. He screamed and thrashed around. I took a huge breath and felt a little closer to the Satisfaction line.

  Flashlights traced beams of orange through the pulsing red, yellow, blue. Keys jangled loudly as several officers ran at us from the sea wall, screaming for everyone to get down. Eddy walked toward me from the water, dark silhouettes on the ground behind him, moon making him glow like a nightmarish specter.

  The cops reached me, flashlights illuminating my face. They froze. One said, “Holy shit!” Then, “Don't move!” and pointed a gun at my head.

  The blood was still warm on my face, sticky, spots on my shirt. My fists were held up in their direction, and I decided that was fairly stupid before realizing they must see a retard in truth, and I would be dead from a fusillade of bullets any second now.

  “Razor! Get down, boy!” Eddy bellowed, jogging quickly, waving to divert their attention from me. He stopped, hands up, and two cops flanked him with aimed pistols. He got down.

  I considered my options as the frightened policemen continued to yell at me. I could try to fight, but would likely take a bullet. I usually run from the cops. However, it's unlikely I'd make it ten feet before getting dropped by the giant Taser a policewoman just pointed at me, hands shaking.

  I felt an emptiness in my gut where the ball of dense emotion had sat like a tank of nitro. I was certainly well past satisfied, with a reserve of satiety that should hold me for quite a while. I was pleasantly exhausted. A nap on a jail cell cot sounded terrific.

  I'm good, I determined, shivering in fulfillment. I nearly shook my coat out. No need to die today. And I'm not terribly eager to feel the bite of that Taser. No fan of electricity am I. I got down.

  We were cuffed and herded back to the sea wall. Two ambulances had arrived, adding more uniforms and blinding lights to the scene. People were being treated everywhere. Cops stared at me as we walked by. I became aware of the blood again, having to exercise great restraint in not licking it from around my lips. Stepped over the wall and got shoved into the back of a police car. They put Eddy in next to me. Shut the doors. The interior was cramped for me, so I know Eddy's bulk didn't like it, especially with his hands cuffed behind his back.

  With no wind blasting me, I became more aware of myself. Both hands ached like a bitch, possibly fractured. My ribs were cutting up as well, pains I couldn't feel minutes ago as the aggressive emotions pumped me full of Fuck the World Indestructibility. I sighed, missing the feeling already, and wiped my mouth on my shoulder before I did something disgusting, like I was thinking a minute ago. I need a joint in a bad way.

  I looked over at my trainer and new partner in crime and smiled, overall pleased with the outcome of our endeavor. “I feel much better,” I told him.

  He chuckled. “Me, too. But let's not do that again, okay kid? That felt too good, and I'm too old to start
new habits.”

  I laughed, then cringed in pain. “Cool,” I gasped.

  We slept like the dead in the Ocean Springs jail, a small area of cells inside the police station off Dewey Avenue. The next morning we were told we had an initial appearance scheduled in court for 9:00 a.m. We were cuffed and led into a small courtroom that was filled to capacity, several people standing. All of the football jocks were there, some bandaged or in casts, several had parents with them. Pandemonium ensued when we entered, curses and demands for explanations, fingers and fists of angry parents thrown around emphatically. Shouts for quiet were ignored. Eddy and I were seated in front of the judge's bench, and I had to swivel around for fear of being assaulted from behind.

  An air horn sounded, freezing everyone with its piercing blare.

  “Quiet, I said!” the judge thundered, a late sixties gent in a black suit, black robe hastily thrown over it. He put the horn in a desk drawer. “Sit down and be quiet!”

  The main entrance opened and Eddy's brother walked in. Everyone was stunned because Perry looked like Eddy's twin, huge and dark and dangerous in appearance. His glare made everyone think he intended to start trouble, but I could tell it was affected. Perry's a jovial dude.

  He spotted us. I nodded, What's up? and he swaggered over to us. Stopped with hands on waist of his dark slacks. I admired his Cruisin' the Coast tee. He looked around at the victims, shaking his head. Everyone watched him, his presence eye-commanding. He looked at Eddy, at me, trying to hold a stern expression without laughing, and said in a scolding tone, “I thought I told the two of you: when there are seventeen of them, one of you has to sit out!”

  Laughter erupted from several of the jocks' fathers. Their sons' faces turned scarlet. Perry barked a laugh that evaporated the spell he held on the court.

  Perry took a folded newspaper from his back pocket and lay it on the table as he sat down between us. The judge began the proceeding, but I couldn't focus on his words. The headline of the Ocean Springs Record proclaimed BATTLE AT THE FRONT BEACH! and had a blown-up photo of the carnage. Police and EMT and hurt people were everywhere in the foreground, beach, water and sky dark in the back, moon bright. It was a beautiful picture. I decided to buy myself a copy and frame it.