looking
disheveled and out of control. She could smell the alcohol from 10
feet away.
"What is this?" Phil shouted, words slurring.
He fished in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled note and threw it
at her. "I come home and find this note telling me you told Minda
to take the kids to the Philippines?"
She left the note after I told her not
to , Shannon thought.
Phil glared. "And who is this clown? Why is
he always over here? Don't tell me he's your new boyfriend! Already
trying to move in on our inheritance? What're you doing in my dad's
house?"
Stretch stepped protectively in front of
Shannon. "You better go home," he said to Phil.
"C'mon man," Phil said, taking a wide-legged
stance and hunching his shoulders in a very menacing gesture. "I'm
waiting."
This is beyond terrible, Shannon thought. And
it was--to the point where it seemed the kitchen simply could not
contain the bad vibrations.
"Phil, stop!" she said, as though calling him
on it would somehow make him come to his senses. But her statement
lacked conviction, the authority of her accusation coming out as it
did in a hoarse squeak, like a frightened mouse might issue forth
when faced with the sudden intrusion of a cat.
"At least I know what I am," Phil said. "I'm
a drunk. But I'm not sure who you are. You used to be my little
sister, but now you're just somebody who doesn't live here and
hasn't been a part of this family for over two years. Now you have
the nerve to come down here and act like you care about Dad, and
tell Minda to leave me! It's time somebody brought you off your
high horse, little Miss Pacific Heights."
"Oh!" Shannon felt like she'd been punched in
the stomach. She held up the cell phone. "You hit Minda. That's why
I told her to leave. And I'm not going to stand here and let you
threaten me. I'm calling the cops. If you leave now, I won't call
them. Don't forget you're on parole."
"You're not calling anybody." Phil talked
through his teeth, jaw clenched, veins in forehead bulging. And
then a look of total and complete surprise. "What is that? On the
table? Is that the box with Mom's ashes? What are you doing! You're
not supposed to touch those!"
"Shannon," Stretch said, in a low, calm
voice. "Go outside."
She hesitated.
"Go," Stretch said.
Something about the way he said it, said one
word. Go. She decided to follow the order, but before she
could, Phil lunged forward towards her. At which point the most
amazing thing happened. Her eyes were treated to the incredible
sight of Stretch Murphy wrapping his thick, powerful fingers over
Phil's wrists before twisting Phil around like a dance partner and
forcing him to the floor.
It was over almost before it started. Phil,
his features showing great surprise, as yet unable to quite believe
just how easily he had been taken, lying face down, twisted into
something of a human pretzel, with Stretch kneeling over him, a
size 13 work boot planted squarely in the middle of Phil's
back.
"Hey, man, lemme up," Phil whined. "Let me go
before you break my arms off."
"Hold him, Stretch. I'm calling 911," Shannon
said.
"So they can come out here and do what?"
Stretch replied. "Throw your brother in the slammer?"
"It's a start."
"Shannon, this is a difficult time for Phil.
He lost his father, his wife and kids, and his sobriety all in the
past 24 hours. He needs help, not incarceration. I think we can
work all this out without involving the cops, don't you?"
"Yeh, this has been very hard on me," Phil
agreed. "But maybe you better call the cops, Sister, because when
he lets me loose, I won't fall for your boyfriend's lucky judo
moves again."
Stretch smiled. "Oh, it wasn't luck."
"What, then?"
"Twenty-seven years of judo training."
"Twenty-seven years?"
"That's right. I won my first regional
tournament at age six. I teach street combat classes on Thursday
nights at the Police Academy. You should come up some time for a
free lesson. Or I can give you another lesson right now. But I
can't promise to
disheveled and out of control. She could smell the alcohol from 10
feet away.
"What is this?" Phil shouted, words slurring.
He fished in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled note and threw it
at her. "I come home and find this note telling me you told Minda
to take the kids to the Philippines?"
She left the note after I told her not
to , Shannon thought.
Phil glared. "And who is this clown? Why is
he always over here? Don't tell me he's your new boyfriend! Already
trying to move in on our inheritance? What're you doing in my dad's
house?"
Stretch stepped protectively in front of
Shannon. "You better go home," he said to Phil.
"C'mon man," Phil said, taking a wide-legged
stance and hunching his shoulders in a very menacing gesture. "I'm
waiting."
This is beyond terrible, Shannon thought. And
it was--to the point where it seemed the kitchen simply could not
contain the bad vibrations.
"Phil, stop!" she said, as though calling him
on it would somehow make him come to his senses. But her statement
lacked conviction, the authority of her accusation coming out as it
did in a hoarse squeak, like a frightened mouse might issue forth
when faced with the sudden intrusion of a cat.
"At least I know what I am," Phil said. "I'm
a drunk. But I'm not sure who you are. You used to be my little
sister, but now you're just somebody who doesn't live here and
hasn't been a part of this family for over two years. Now you have
the nerve to come down here and act like you care about Dad, and
tell Minda to leave me! It's time somebody brought you off your
high horse, little Miss Pacific Heights."
"Oh!" Shannon felt like she'd been punched in
the stomach. She held up the cell phone. "You hit Minda. That's why
I told her to leave. And I'm not going to stand here and let you
threaten me. I'm calling the cops. If you leave now, I won't call
them. Don't forget you're on parole."
"You're not calling anybody." Phil talked
through his teeth, jaw clenched, veins in forehead bulging. And
then a look of total and complete surprise. "What is that? On the
table? Is that the box with Mom's ashes? What are you doing! You're
not supposed to touch those!"
"Shannon," Stretch said, in a low, calm
voice. "Go outside."
She hesitated.
"Go," Stretch said.
Something about the way he said it, said one
word. Go. She decided to follow the order, but before she
could, Phil lunged forward towards her. At which point the most
amazing thing happened. Her eyes were treated to the incredible
sight of Stretch Murphy wrapping his thick, powerful fingers over
Phil's wrists before twisting Phil around like a dance partner and
forcing him to the floor.
It was over almost before it started. Phil,
his features showing great surprise, as yet unable to quite believe
just how easily he had been taken, lying face down, twisted into
something of a human pretzel, with Stretch kneeling over him, a
size 13 work boot planted squarely in the middle of Phil's
back.
"Hey, man, lemme up," Phil whined. "Let me go
before you break my arms off."
"Hold him, Stretch. I'm calling 911," Shannon
said.
"So they can come out here and do what?"
Stretch replied. "Throw your brother in the slammer?"
"It's a start."
"Shannon, this is a difficult time for Phil.
He lost his father, his wife and kids, and his sobriety all in the
past 24 hours. He needs help, not incarceration. I think we can
work all this out without involving the cops, don't you?"
"Yeh, this has been very hard on me," Phil
agreed. "But maybe you better call the cops, Sister, because when
he lets me loose, I won't fall for your boyfriend's lucky judo
moves again."
Stretch smiled. "Oh, it wasn't luck."
"What, then?"
"Twenty-seven years of judo training."
"Twenty-seven years?"
"That's right. I won my first regional
tournament at age six. I teach street combat classes on Thursday
nights at the Police Academy. You should come up some time for a
free lesson. Or I can give you another lesson right now. But I
can't promise to
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