“You gonna beg?” he asked, his expression playful.
“Please don’t beat me to death.”
“That’s not very good.”
“Pretty please, with pink sugar on top.” I didn’t have to fake the cowering at all; my knees were knocking together.
“I saw what you did with my aunt. Twisted her head around. That’s what I’m gonna do with you. But first I’m gonna do it to your arms and legs.”
He threw an easy jab. I took it on the shoulder, and it knocked me back into the wall. The impact made my eyes water.
“I twisted this one guy’s arm around eight times. You know what happened then? It came off. Like a fried chicken leg.”
Another jab. I brought my arms up to block, and it felt like I’d tried to stop a bus. Rocket was just playing with me, like a deranged child who pulled the wings from butterflies. I was nothing more than a toy for his amusement. Something harmless, to be used and then forgotten about.
That pissed me off.
I latched onto the anger, using it to push back some of the fear. Rocket lobbed another jab my way, but this time I sidestepped it, grabbed his shirt, and rammed the top of my head up under his chin.
The roider staggered back. When he regained his balance, he jammed two giant fingers into his mouth. He pulled something small and bloody out from between his lips, then looked at me, amazed.
“You knocked out my—”
I repeated the maneuver, cracking my head against his jaw so hard I saw stars.
Rocket yelped—probably the first time he’d ever made a sound like that—and then spat two more teeth onto the floor.
I gave him another swift punt between the legs, got no reaction, and dove past him as he snapped off a haymaker, his fist burying itself in the wall with an explosion of plaster dust.
Beelining for the exit, I ran right into Lewis and two of his Nazi pals. Lewis had an aluminum bat. I made my fingers stiff, got inside his swing, and poked him in the throat hard enough to break cartilage.
One of his friends hit me in the shoulder, but compared to Rocket it was just a love tap. I started a war between my elbow and his nose, bringing them together three times in rapid succession. His nose lost.
The third guy punched me in the gut, then screamed when he noticed something behind me. I doubled over just as Rocket’s fist missed my head, instead connecting with the Nazi. His upper body snapped backward with a nauseating crack. He crumpled to the floor, never to goose-step again.
“Fucking shit monkeys! It’s Roidzilla!”
McGlade had apparently taken his nose out of the girl-on-girl action long enough to see what was going on. I tugged the folding knife off of my utility belt, opening it up. I doubted the three-inch blade would do much, but it was better than nothing.
“Shoot him!” I screamed at McGlade.
“With what?”
“Your Taser!”
“No Tesla service in dissytown, partner.”
Rocket darted in close. His chin and shirt were soaked with blood. I jabbed with the knife, driving it into his stomach. With amazing speed he swatted my hand away. The knife remained lodged in his abs, looking tiny among the striations. He flicked it away.
“Use your Magnum, McGlade!”
“I didn’t bring it.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“I didn’t want it to get stolen. Have you seen how dangerous this place is?”
McGlade was an asshole, but he did have a point.
Rocket spread out his arms, trying for the bear hug. I didn’t want my insides to squeeze up out of my mouth like a tube of toothpaste, so I stepped away and kicked him in the groin again, which he ignored.
“He’s a roider,” McGlade said. “His balls are the size of peas. If he even has any left.”
I dropped to my knees and crawled through Rocket’s legs just before his arms closed around me. Then I did a quick spin and worked his kidneys, left right left right, like I was whaling on a heavy bag at the gym.
Rocket grunted, and caught me with a backhand that connected with such force I was actually lifted off the ground. I landed on a torn-up pool table, fell behind it, and lay there for a second, waiting for the world to stop spinning. Before it did, Rocket was stomping over, kicking chairs and tables out of the way. His earlier, playful look had been replaced by something dark and scary.
McGlade called out, “You seem to have the situation under control here, buddy, and everyone else is leaving, so I think I’m gonna hit the road.”
“You’re an asshole, McGlade.”
“Pretty much.”
He ran out with the rest of the crowd.
I looked around, and noticed Lewis on the floor next to me, clawing at his broken trachea and turning a shade of purple normally reserved for plums. I grabbed his dropped baseball bat, then got unsteadily to my feet, ready to hit a home run.