Craig Davidson - The Fighter

She waved the firecrackers over the scanner. “Missing a few ingredients.”

“It’s mostly meringue.”

She handed him the bags with a rueful shake of her head. “Hope you’re not planning to bake this cake in my neighborhood.”

In the parking lot with his gonads kicking out toxic levels of testosterone some biological imperative made him drop to the tarmac and burn off push-ups; his mind whited out at two hundred reps and when his senses returned he was crouched behind the Micra with his hands gripping the bumper, straining to lift the rear wheels off the ground, but merciless pressure built up in his abdominal cavity and he feared a hernia or a prolapsed colon so he walked to a payphone at the lot’s edge and dialed Lou Cobb.

“That… that place you were… talking about…”

“You been out jogging, kid? Sound puffed.”

“…Gladiators…” Paul was picturing arms and legs rupturing from excess mass, hyper-developed muscles splitting biceps and thighs. “… Thunderbird Layne and all that…”

“How’s your schnozz?” Lou wanted to know. “Healed up yet?”

Paul felt his own muscles twitching, the tendons hard and tight as a condom packed with walnuts. “My nose is fine. So, about that place—”

Lou laughed for no reason: Bhar-har-har! Or was Paul hearing things; was it some odd distortion on the line? “We’ll work something out. Sounds like you’re ready.”

He hung up and drove to Bayside, a neighborhood strung along the banks of Twelve Mile Creek. In the dusky evening light he saw million-dollar homes, topiary gardens, pool houses. Paul stomped on the brakes and stepped out. The house was gaudy: ornate columns, three-car garage, his-and-her hunter green Range Rovers.

He tucked the tire iron down the back of his pants — cold steel slid between the crack of his ass and he shivered — and grabbed a carton of eggs. He eased through the open gates up the drive and found a spot on the front lawn. Methodically, with great relish, he started chucking.

Eggs broke over the mullioned windows and the stained-glass door. Eggs broke with the sound of brittle bones, so richly rewarding.

A soft terrified face materialized in a second-floor window. Paul threw an egg and that face vaporized. Egg dripped off the eaves. Egg coated the Range Rovers.

The mailbox was shaped like a dog: an Irish setter. Paul stared at this grinning dog with a metal pole shoved up its ass and found himself unsettled on a sub-cellular level. He drew the tire iron from his trousers and whacked the fucking thing’s head and put a satisfying dent in it; another whack tore its mouth off its hinges. He jammed the tire iron down its throat and pried it off its moorings. A kick sent the mouthless thing skittering across the driveway into a flower bed.

A buttery face poked out the front door. The face hollered that Paul was an unhinged crazyperson and that the cops were on their way.

“I am the cops!” Paul screamed. “My name is Rex Appleby — part of that thin blue line separating you from the unadulterated scum out there!”

“Get off my lawn, degenerate!”

“Your mailbox was resisting arrest. I’m well within my rights!”

When the guy reappeared at the door, relating Paul’s physical description to 911 dispatch, it was time to hit the dusty trail.

Back in the car he crushed Dianabols on the dashboard and snorted the pink powder.

The Micra started with a shudder; he punched the accelerator and blatted down the street singing along to the stereo, slewing around a hairpin curve, getting the shitbox up on two wheels.

He drove a few blocks before pulling up beside a gold Lexus SUV. Paul had once wanted one of these so badly — he’d planned on asking for one for Christmas. Now the very sight of it made him queasy with rage.

He got out and checked the door: unlocked. He grabbed a handful of eggs and pelted the mahogany instrument panel. With the tire iron he stabbed holes in the fragrant leather seats and jammed Roman candles into the stuffing. He lit the fuses and slammed the door. The soundproofing was top-notch: only brilliant intermittent flashes behind the tinted windows. Acrid gray smoke seeped from the door seams.

He hopped in the Micra. His heart trip-hammered wildly; he pictured aortic valves spun from carnival glass on the verge of splintering. He lit off some Magic Black Snakes on the passenger seat but they were unrewarding, dirty little turds, so he fired up a Screaming Devil and puttered down the street with gobs of shrieking orange fire spitting out the windows.

At some point he noticed the flashing cherries in his rearview and pulled over.

The cop was old, with the skittery-dodgy gait of a man clearly terrified of being shot or otherwise incapacitated so close to retirement. He scanned the car’s interior. An arresting officer’s wet dream: busted eggs, squashed tomatoes, the reek of gunpowder.

“And how are you tonight, sir?”

“Feeling jim-dandy fine, officer.”

“I’ll ask you to put both hands on the wheel… yup, like that.”

The officer walked around front of the car. “You’ve got a busted headlight. And what looks to be a…” He hunkered down for a better look.“…bird lodged in the grille, here.”

“That came with the car.”

“Funny option, I’d say.” He returned to the driver’s side. “We received a call about a disturbance. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that?”

Paul scraped at a shard of eggshell stuck to his chin. “I did see a suspicious fellow — a prowler, you might say — a few blocks back. He was tall and skinny, with rolls of fat hanging off his squat frame. And he was sitting astride a gryphon.”

The cop sighed heavily. “A gryphon, huh?”

“Yes, the mythical creature. Half lion, half eagle. Quite rare, I can assure you.”

“And you haven’t been making mischief tonight — throwing eggs, batting mailboxes, and the like? Nothing illegal?”

“My understanding of the law is fuzzy, officer — is driving drunk illegal nowadays?”

“Telling me you’re intoxicated?”

“Yo ho ho and a bottle of r-r-r-r-r-ruuum !”

The cop looked as though he’d dearly love to drag Paul to the precinct and interrogate him with a phonebook. “You’ve got some restitutions to make, son — though by the looks of this heap here, the offended parties may have to satisfy themselves with an apology. License and registration.”

Paul rooted through the glove compartment and handed them over. The officer’s brow wrinkled. He glanced at Paul, the license, back at Paul.

“You’re not…” confused, “… Jack Harris’s son? The winery owner?”

Paul nodded.

The officer leaned down to get a better look. “Lord,” he said, “it is you.”

Paul tallied up his offenses over the past hours: assault, petty larceny, attempted vehicular manslaughter, drug abuse, vandalism, tendering false statements to an officer — how many years in the hoosegow was he looking at here?

“I want you to put this car in gear,” the cop said evenly, “then I want you to drive up to that main street there and get yourself home.”

“But I egged the almighty fuck out of that house.”

“Just a boy being a boy, s’far as I’m concerned.”

“I’m twenty-six!”

“Simmer down. I’m doing you a favor.” The officer headed back to his squad car and pulled up beside Paul. “You drive safe, now. And tell your pops Jim Halliday sends his regards.”

With a sunny smile and a toot of his horn, he drove away.

Paul tightened his grip on the wheel and butted it sharply with his head; the horn issued a strangled honk. His… fucking… father. He butted the wheel again and again; blood trickled down the sides of his nose. He jerked the car in gear and trod on the gas.