He had always loved scraps at recess with the Kreskin brothers and the football players and wrestlers. Mister Darby the gym teacher just used to watch until Jay hurt somebody. Then he would break it up and pat Jay on the back.
How am I doing now Mister Darby?
In his child’s mind he had always sought validation from his brother, Dad or Mister Darby while fighting older kids—the other ‘enemy’ kids were always older and bigger.
One of the crossing guards threw a big heavy cell phone that bounced off of his eyebrow. As he winced from that unfair trick he saw Mister Darby behind the bars.
Why are you behind bars Mister Darby?
Mister Darby, rather than break it up, just winked and smiled at little Jay. “Beat their asses son!”
At that moment, Jay finally, after all of these years of school, realized that Mister Darby was a big Black dude with a gold tooth, a wide smile and a Georgia accent.
He grinned. “Yessir!” and got back to work.
He circled right—this is so much fun! I hope Mom doesn’t have dinner on yet. This is too cool Bro!—and cranked a crocodile kick into the thigh of the older kid, breaking it clean and sending him to the floor in agony—alright NickNick!
A radio hit him on the back of the head so he jammed out a back kick and felt the fat kid fold around his foot—yeah Bro!
The kid he had jumped over was still in shock and Jay could hear all twenty or so of the on-looking kids—recess fights do get crazy sometimes—cheering him on so he shuffle-stepped up and slammed his shin soccer style into the kid’s groin and watched him fold and flop—that’s all you boy, your trademark kick!
All of the crossing guards that had been picking on him at recess were down. He was so happy he was dancing and head bobbing like Stevie Wonder as the other kids cheered—then it hit him! He was being electrocuted by a crossing guard who was holding this little gadget attached to some wires—that were attached to him! Two other crossing guards were standing next to the gadget crossing guard with their big hard cell phones ready to beat him when he went down—but you know, It doesn’t really feel too bad. Dude, this feels like an event.
What’s an event?
You know when you have those dreams about being a wild Indian or caveman, that’s an event.
Oh cool, let’s have an event—but the crossing guards are still picking on me!!!
I Shall Rule!
The bulk of this bookmark is omitted from the online publication due to extreme graphic violence.
There were more meat-puppets, lots of them, under the overhang, behind the hard cold-stone saplings.
I wonder if they will taste any better. This one is so bitter.
He roared furiously and pounced on a pair of the saplings up by the roof with all four paws and began prying them apart so he could get to the meat inside! They were screaming, sweating, pissing and howling—no, they will not taste good.
They must be all bitter by now. Nothing really tastes good unless you kill it by surprise and quickly.
He left the meat-puppets cringing in their den back against the far wall while he prowled among the wigglers, bleeders and the drained snack sacks. He eventually pried a rib out of the big mean meat-puppet and began sharpening it on the smooth stone floor of the bright cave.
Why is there no wind—no outside place?
Other worried meat-puppets had been gathering, watching him, fearful. Apparently one of their young was among his still-living victims and they wanted it back. There was plenty and to spare, and he was enjoying his new sharpened tool; a tusk-like thing to stab with!
He considered the gathering meat-puppets and then let out his warning roar as he ran up the wall and sprang off the ceiling with one paw, the sharp bone held threateningly in the other paw as he pounced to the floor of his new feasting lair.
I shall rule!
He roared again, less viciously, without the splashing drool.
I can afford to let some meat go. It can walk around and stay fresh!
He then snarled a warning not to feed on his kill-pile.
My meat ripens here, my feast; be warned.
