Sam ran out into the street and ripped open the door of the white van that was crushing his Porsche. The man inside was a long-haired Hispanic guy with curly locks. A bloody screwdriver was on the dashboard in front of him so Sam wasted no time, yanking the man by the hair down into the street.
The man had an intense vacant look, not as undirected as the others, more like a bland hate. He glared at Sam as he crawled to his feet to come for a tackle, Sam supposed. Sam stepped out hard to the left, bringing a penalty shot worth of velocity into the jaw with his instep. His foot stung like hell, and this increased his anger. He toe-kicked the limp face with the other foot until it got sore, then began jumping up and down on the head.
This isn’t me.
What is happening to me?
Have I lost it too?
“Hey Tennis Pro!”
Tennis pro?
I hate tennis!
Tennis is for rich jerks!
Sam turned to see a burly looking man, big and powerful and hairy like the villain in the old Popeye cartoons. The man was walking toward him with shoulders hunched forward and a women’s head held in his right hand by her long blonde hair, and a hacksaw in his left hand.
I’m going to hurl!
I can’t hurl!
This guy is a monster!
The man looked down into Sam’s eyes with mad pig’s eyes.
“I need a lift, tennis pro. If you’re done killing this other faɡɡot, I’d appreciate a ride in your van.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ellen. What about Ellen?
“Sir, please make your-self comfortable in the passenger seat while I get my laundry.”
“Yes,” rumbled the man, as he turned and climbed into the passenger seat and placed the head matter-of-factly on the driver’s seat. The man then glared at Sam meaningfully and nodded.
Sam scooped Ellen up, bundled stiffly and shaking in the quilted blanket, off the lawn and carried her to the idling van. The rear door was jammed or locked or something, so he had to carry her to the driver’s seat and then step through the seats and place her on the floor of the van amongst all of the scattered tools. He hoped she would be comfortable on the coiled cable. He returned to the front seat and noticed the bleeding head was still there. He then became a bit irritable, and snarled at the big man.
“Do you mind, pal?”
The man then grinned at him.
“And the bitch still doesn’t listen!” and grabbed the head, smashed out the passenger side window with his mallet-like fist, and tossed the head into the street.
“Hitchhike home, Melody. It’s boys’ night out!”
The man then slapped Sam’s thigh and commanded, “Onward, James, onward!”
To be concluded in the print version of Little Feet Going Nowhere: Sam Waterford’s Outrageous Profession and the Fate of Humanity.
