Lou slammed his shot glass on the bar and stared at Thom. That piece
of crap was pawing his girlfriend like he wasn’t even around to see it. He
marched to the pool table and puffed out his chest. “Bru, looks like you’re
getting handy with my girlfriend.”
Thom didn’t look round. He nuzzled Flem’s neck.
“Dude, the hell?” He shoved Thom, sending multicoloured balls
skidding across the felt, like mice running for cover. A glass shattered.
Thom’s leather waistcoat was taut over the undulation of his
muscles. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and inspected it for
blood. Flem was sprawled on the pool table, tugging at her miniskirt to limit
the number of sneak previews the guys at the bar got. Thom turned to face Lou.
He grabbed the collar of his Ralph Lauren shirt. Lou’s mouth dehydrated.
“Bru, that’s my girl—” was all Lou managed before Thom’s fist
shattered his cheek, slid across his nose, causing the cartilage to crack and
splinter, and jammed into the top of his eye socket. He fell backwards, seeing
stars, tasting blood and bone and feeling the hollow sound of his pelvis on the
flagstones reverberate down his spine.
Thom shook his wrist, and inspected the knuckleduster. Only a slight
dent over the index finger; not bad. He’d have it buffed out in the morning.
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