Read Online Nightrunners by Joe R. Lansdale - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joe R. Lansdale
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Clyde was, but this was the first time he'd ever been close enough to feel the heat. Before, the guy'd been a tough greaser in a leather jacket who spent most of his time expelled from school. Nothing more.
But now he saw for the first time that the guy had something; something that up close shone like a well-honed razor in the noonday sun.
Cool. He had that.
Class. He had that.
Difference. He had that.
He was a walking power plant.
Name was Clyde. Ol', mean, weird, don't-fuck-with-me Clyde.
"You looking at something?" Clyde growled.
Brian just stood there, one hand resting on the water fountain.
After a while he said innocently: "You."
"That right?"
"Uh-huh."
"Staring at me?"
"I guess."
"I see."
And then Clyde was on Brian, had him by the hair, jerking his head down, driving a knee into his face. Brian went back seeing constellations. Got kicked in the ribs then.
Hit in the eye as he leaned forward from that. Clyde was making a regular bop bag out of him.
He hit Clyde back, aimed a nose shot through a swirling haze of colored dots.
And it hurt so good. Like when he made that fat pig Betty Sue Flowers fingernail his back until he bled; thrust up her hips until his cock ached and the rotten-fish smell of her filled his brain . . . Only this hurt better. Ten times better.
Clyde wasn't expecting that. This guy was coming back like he liked it.
Clyde dug that.
He kicked Brian in the nuts, grabbed him by the hair and slammed his forehead against the kid's nose. Made him bleed good, but didn't get a good enough lick in to break it.
Brian went down, grabbed Clyde's ankle, bit it.
Clyde yowled, drug Brian around the hall.
The students watched, fascinated. Some wanted to laugh at what was happening, but none dared.
Clyde used his free foot to kick Brian in the face. That made Brian let go ... for a moment.
He dove at Clyde, slammed the top of his head into Clyde's bread basket, carried him back against the wall crying loudly, "Motherfucker!"
Then the principal came, separated them, screamed at them, and Clyde hit the principal and the principal went down and now Clyde and Brian were both standing up, together, kicking the goddamned shit out of the goddamned principal in the middle of the goddamned hall.
Side by side they stood. Kicking.
One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three.
Left leg. Right leg. Feet moving together like the legs of a scurrying centipede . . .
THREE
They got some heat slapped on them for that; juvenile court action. It was a bad scene.
Brian's mother sat at a long table with his lawyer and whined like a blender on whip.
Good old mom. She was actually good for something. She had told the judge:
"He's a good boy, your honor. Never got in any trouble before. Probably wouldn't have gotten into this, but he's got no father at home to be an example . . . ," and so forth.
If it hadn't been to his advantage, he'd have been disgusted. As it was, he sat in his place with his nice clean suit and tried to look ashamed and a little surprised at what he had done. And in a way he was surprised.
He looked over at Clyde. He hadn't bothered with a suit. He had his jacket and jeans on.
He was cleaning his fingernails with a fingernail clipper.
When Mrs. Blackwood finished, Judge Lowry yawned. It was going to be one of those days. He thought: the dockets are full, this Blackwood kid has no priors, looks clean-cut enough, and this other little shit has a bookful . . . Yet, he is a kid, and I feel big-hearted.
Or to put this into perspective, there's enough of a backlog without adding this silly case to it.
If I let the Blackwood kid go, it'll look like favoritism because he's clean-cut and this is his first time—and that is good for something. Yet, if I don't let the Edson kid go too, then I'm saying the same crime is not as bad when its committed by a clean-cut kid with a whining momma.
All right, he thought. We'll keep it simple. Let them both go, but give it all some window dressing.
And it was
But now he saw for the first time that the guy had something; something that up close shone like a well-honed razor in the noonday sun.
Cool. He had that.
Class. He had that.
Difference. He had that.
He was a walking power plant.
Name was Clyde. Ol', mean, weird, don't-fuck-with-me Clyde.
"You looking at something?" Clyde growled.
Brian just stood there, one hand resting on the water fountain.
After a while he said innocently: "You."
"That right?"
"Uh-huh."
"Staring at me?"
"I guess."
"I see."
And then Clyde was on Brian, had him by the hair, jerking his head down, driving a knee into his face. Brian went back seeing constellations. Got kicked in the ribs then.
Hit in the eye as he leaned forward from that. Clyde was making a regular bop bag out of him.
He hit Clyde back, aimed a nose shot through a swirling haze of colored dots.
And it hurt so good. Like when he made that fat pig Betty Sue Flowers fingernail his back until he bled; thrust up her hips until his cock ached and the rotten-fish smell of her filled his brain . . . Only this hurt better. Ten times better.
Clyde wasn't expecting that. This guy was coming back like he liked it.
Clyde dug that.
He kicked Brian in the nuts, grabbed him by the hair and slammed his forehead against the kid's nose. Made him bleed good, but didn't get a good enough lick in to break it.
Brian went down, grabbed Clyde's ankle, bit it.
Clyde yowled, drug Brian around the hall.
The students watched, fascinated. Some wanted to laugh at what was happening, but none dared.
Clyde used his free foot to kick Brian in the face. That made Brian let go ... for a moment.
He dove at Clyde, slammed the top of his head into Clyde's bread basket, carried him back against the wall crying loudly, "Motherfucker!"
Then the principal came, separated them, screamed at them, and Clyde hit the principal and the principal went down and now Clyde and Brian were both standing up, together, kicking the goddamned shit out of the goddamned principal in the middle of the goddamned hall.
Side by side they stood. Kicking.
One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three.
Left leg. Right leg. Feet moving together like the legs of a scurrying centipede . . .
THREE
They got some heat slapped on them for that; juvenile court action. It was a bad scene.
Brian's mother sat at a long table with his lawyer and whined like a blender on whip.
Good old mom. She was actually good for something. She had told the judge:
"He's a good boy, your honor. Never got in any trouble before. Probably wouldn't have gotten into this, but he's got no father at home to be an example . . . ," and so forth.
If it hadn't been to his advantage, he'd have been disgusted. As it was, he sat in his place with his nice clean suit and tried to look ashamed and a little surprised at what he had done. And in a way he was surprised.
He looked over at Clyde. He hadn't bothered with a suit. He had his jacket and jeans on.
He was cleaning his fingernails with a fingernail clipper.
When Mrs. Blackwood finished, Judge Lowry yawned. It was going to be one of those days. He thought: the dockets are full, this Blackwood kid has no priors, looks clean-cut enough, and this other little shit has a bookful . . . Yet, he is a kid, and I feel big-hearted.
Or to put this into perspective, there's enough of a backlog without adding this silly case to it.
If I let the Blackwood kid go, it'll look like favoritism because he's clean-cut and this is his first time—and that is good for something. Yet, if I don't let the Edson kid go too, then I'm saying the same crime is not as bad when its committed by a clean-cut kid with a whining momma.
All right, he thought. We'll keep it simple. Let them both go, but give it all some window dressing.
And it was
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