Read Online Better to Die a Hero by Michael Van Dagger - Free Book Online Page B

tied surgical tubing around his biceps, clenched the tubing with his teeth, then repeatedly slapped his forearm. The uncommonly hard slaps made him sick to his stomach and so did the injection that followed. The latex snapped away and the man’s mouth fell open, his eyes rolled up white. Pop… Pop… Pop… echoed against the granite as the addict’s mouth worked furiously like a goldfish on the carpet.
    Steve cleared his throat.
    The second man looked up and showing no concern over a spectator, pulled the syringe from popping man's arm. He drew into it from a spoon and injected as the first had done, minus the popping.
    He turned away and his thoughts moved to the costumes Bryan had asked him and Nora to create. By Friday, all three teens were supposed to have their costumes ready, but Steve had given no thought to the necessity of a construction impenetrable to blood. Nora planned to hide her identity by feline face painting, a gray tabby, like the dancers in the Broadway play, which offered no protection from splattering blood. He’d thought this face painting an excellent idea, because it allowed unrestricted breathing. He also found it erotic; however, infected blood splattering into the mouths of his friends was a real concern and he wondered if he should initiate a conversation.
    All he wanted was to foil one or two assaults, just enough to get in the papers and then take the credit when going public. That would be enough to secure some fame and a little fortune. What he didn’t need is for him or his friends to get HIV. The more he thought about it the dumber this idea, to patrol the park, started to look. All sorts of things could go wrong; one of them could end up shot.
    Below, the first man stopped popping and was being helped to his feet by the second. They crept to the cement stairs and dragged themselves upward. Steve leaned back, his butt pressing the cool metal fence, head pointed strait, but eyes straining peripherally, watching the two addict’s every move. His fear of confrontation was realized when they turned and walked toward him. He hoped they’d walk past, but the two made no course correction that would put them anywhere but right next to him. He remembered the mental note he had made at school—not to be so quick at moving out of the other guy’s way—and turned to face the men.
    “Porky Bastard!” the more alert man shouted in what sounded like a poor imitation of a drill sergeant.
    Their somewhat muscular build surprised Steve. Both men, with shirts open, looked like deflated body builders. It was as if someone had stuck them with a pin, or needle and the muscle leaked out leaving behind a husk that pointed to better days. The lines in their leather faces were deep and intimidating like the depth of the moss wall.
    “Take out your wallet and give us a dollar,” the leader said.
    Steve stared into the man’s eyes, desperately searching for something witty to say. Surely, Bryan would have retorted with a one-liner by now. The man’s hand flinched. Steve recoiled, raised his arm high, and slapped his palm down hard on the man’s head. Visions of an orangutan performing the same move in a motion picture played colorfully in the youth’s mind. The addict crumbled to the ground. Steve stepped back as roles reversed and popping man labored helping angry man to his feet. Popping man steered his dazed cohort in the opposite direction and moved away from the teenager.
    Steve looked at the moon and a self-loathing fell upon him. Of all the martial art movies and action films he’d seen, not to mention hundreds of simulated hand-to-hand combats played out at the gaming table, when push came to shove, when his safety was truly at risk, his self-defense reflexes brought about an orangutan type slap to his opponents head. If it weren’t for the powder that pathetic move could have gotten him killed. It was best, he thought, not to tell Bryan or Nora about the incident. It would only fuel