The Pitch-Black Bummer Boys: Wall 2

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Green laughed. Then said, ‘Hey, hey, shh…’ He pointed over Red’s shoulder. Then whispered. ‘Here he comes.’

All four boys, Blue, Red, Orange, and Green, watched the approaching boy. Blue and Green leaned against the wall of the school. Classes were out for the summer, but the field behind the school was still a good meet-up spot. A fine place for summer recreation. Summer trouble.

Green laughed, louder this time. ‘Can’t believe you actually came! You mismatched bastard!’

Mismatched stopped walking. His face flushed. ‘What’d ya say to me? Ya little shit.’

‘Hey! Calm down! Just can’t believe you really showed up!’

The mismatched bastard looked between the four boys. ‘Well, here I am… Now, run ya pockets. All o’ ya.’ His hand fidgeted around his belt.

Orange stepped closer to Mismatched, watching his jittering hand. ‘Whattaya got there? Got a blade tucked away?’

Mismatched nodded. Then reached under his t-shirt, pulled out the switchblade. ‘Yeah, ya like it? Won’t like it when ya guts’re hanging out.’ He pointed it at Orange. ‘Now, ya gon’ run ya pockets? Or do I gotta slice ’em open?’

A smile cut its way across Orange’s face. Green’s smile only grew.

‘Ya guys think this is funny or somethin’?’ Mismatched’s hand trembled. Irrational rage shook through his knife. ‘Maybe I’ll slice you open, huh? Just dig through ya pockets after, huh?’

Green walked forward, slowly, and stopped. A foot from Mismatched. The knife didn’t intimidate him. ‘Baiser ta mère,’ he said. Only loud enough for Mismatched to hear.

‘Whattaya sayin’ now, ya little shit? Speak up!’

Green was a fast kid. Even faster since starting karate classes. And much too fast for Mismatched.

The bully’s arm was in an impossibly tight grip before Mismatched felt the agonizing pain that shot through his joints. He thought his arm would be torn off before the day was done. The switchblade fell to the grass. Green held the arm, pulled harder and harder, laughed as Mismatched screamed.

The other boys watched. None told him to stop.

‘Gah! Please! Let go!’

Green did so. And Mismatched collapsed. Orange ran over, and snatched up the knife from the blades of grass.

The bully rubbed his arm, tears leaked from his eyes. Green stood over him, and kicked. He kicked the boy in the ribs. In the stomach. Over and over. Until Mismatched threw up blood. Red stared. And Blue, as well. They thought the same thought: Was this wrong? Red came to his conclusion: Yes. Blue reached the same conclusion.

Green paused his assault. Then, pulled his foot back, kicked Mismatched in the face. Kicked him in the mouth. Teeth poured out. Green stopped. Held out his hand to Orange. Orange gave him the switchblade. Red thought, Oh, shit, no. Blue thought, Oh, Jesus.

Down, Green kneeled. Next to his pitiful, suffering victim. The boy on the ground, bleeding onto the grass, sobbed, quietly.

Red knew that later, in his bed, he would weep thinking of this scene. He wanted to cry standing there.

Blue cried, but hid it well.

Green leaned in. His lips almost touching Mismatched’s swollen ear. ‘I should cut your tongue out, you know that?’ The destroyed boy twitched, whimpered. He was sure he was dying. Green wrapped the bully’s hair in his fingers, and sliced off chunks of it.

Orange laughed. The sound was sick. ‘Now he’s got mismatched hair, too!’

Folding the knife up, Green tucked it into the bully’s back pocket. ‘I’m not a thief,’ he whispered. ‘So, I’m not taking this from you.’

Green stood, and him and Orange walked back to where Red and Blue waited.

‘Wasn’t so bad,’ Green said, chuckling.

Together, in silence, the four boys looked upon the mismatched boy. He lay on his chest, barely moving. The ground red under him.

Green turned, started for home, or anywhere else. ‘Let’s go…’

Orange and Blue ran toward Green. Red would soon follow, but for now, he couldn’t. He had to wait. Had to cry. He had to make sure the mismatched boy got up.

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