Swinging the sack from my shoulder, I walked over and set it down in a doorway.
As I turned around to face the mob, I doubled up my fist, and took a Jack Dempsey stance.
Freckle-face said, “So you want to fight.” He came in swinging.
I reached way back in Arkansas somewhere. By the time my fist had traveled all the way down to the Cherokee Strip, there was a lot of power behind it.
Smack on the end of Freck’s nose it exploded. With a loud grunt he sat down in the dusty street.
Grabbing his nose in both hands, he started rocking and moaning. I saw the blood squeeze out between his fingers.
Another one sailed in. He didn’t want to fight. He wanted to wrestle. He stuck a finger in my mouth. I ground down.
Shaking his hand and yelling like the hoot owls were after him, he ran across the street.
Another one bored in. I aimed for his eye, but my aim was a little low. It caught him in the Adam’s apple.
A sick look came over his face. Bending over, croaking like a bullfrog that had been caught by a water moccasin, he started going around in a circle.
But there were too many of them. By sheer weight and numbers, they pulled me down.
I managed to twist over on my stomach and buried my face in my arms. I could feel them beating and kicking my body.
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