John’s Fist Came Toward My Face
pizza cutter, thick with blood.- Dr Pepper wrangling
- as a speckled trout to a fly
- in inverse ratio to his prowess among men
- too strong for him
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John’s fist came toward my face, but when I ducked that I put my chin directly in line for the snap-kick that was the true attack. It was the same move I fell for last time, the cheap fake-out I’m as drawn to as a speckled trout to a fly. I came to with ringing ears and double vision in time to see John leaving with the giraffe-hide briefcase, wearing my damp gloves.
Damn him. I sat up rubbing my jaw and looked over at Tessa, who was already stirring. Either she was tougher than I knew, or else that tranquilizer had lost potency over time.
Tessa sat up, rubbing her temples. She glanced at me, and said, “Don’t be too worried, the locks on that thing are too strong for him.”
I nodded, more out of hope than any faith in those locks. Then again, my mentor always told me that one’s capacity for puzzling minutiae is in inverse ratio to his prowess among men. That had always just felt like a zen riddle, but in this case I could see its applicability.
“So what happened? Did he have a blowgun or something? Got us both, I see.”
It was tempting to just nod again, but I knew if I lied to her now we would never be okay again. My memory lurched to a linoleum floor and a pizza cutter, thick with blood. So I confessed to the tranquilizer on the handle of the briefcase.
She stood and bellowed down at me, “You son of a misbegotten, Dr Pepper wrangling, burrito slinger!” She spun away and folded her arms, staring out the window.
“Hey, easy with the casual racism, babe.” I stood up. “Besides, I’m only part Indian. And I have an idea.”