by R.M. Haig
September 10th, 2016. 9:20PM
Burlwood Downs,
Burlwood, Indiana
Ronnie James lifted his rear from his sulky and shifted his weight, something about the seat of this particular race bike hurt his left ass cheek. That was going to make the race miserable, but there was nothing to do about it at this point. The gate car was pulling into turn one, soon the bugle would sound out the familiar notes of Call to Post and he would have to guide Dixie LaRue to her starting position.
He'd drawn number seven for this, the eighth race overall and his third of the night. This was cause for concern, because Dixie was a spirited fillie who liked to run close to the rail. She'd never placed better than fourth when starting on the outside, and he'd never done better than sixth with her from any position. She was trotting well as he took her through her paces in the warmup, so he was hopeful, despite the fact that she would be going off as the nine-to-one long shot.
Settling into the sulky and bracing his feet on the stirrups, he pulled on her left driving line to spin her around, just in time for the sounding of the horn. She rode up tight to the gate as the pace car started rolling, chomping at the bit and ready to burn the mother down. If he could control her, he had a chance...
Pulling the lines lightly, he tried to settle her a bit as the field fell in around them. His goal was to start slow, to fall behind the aggressors of the pack just enough to tuck her to the hub, where she wanted to be. With any luck, he could drop into the middle of the pack and would be running in fifth or sixth as they entered turn three, the first turn of their lap-and-a-half around the five-eighths of a mile track.
If he could keep from getting boxed in, if the horses running along the rail pushed the pace, he would start to open her up when they got back around to turn one and two. They would cruise the backstretch, not giving or taking any positions, and just hold on. Envisioning himself as running no worse than fourth as they approached turn three for the second time, he would really push the girl and move to the outside coming out of turn four. He would be heavy handed with the whip in the homestretch, trying to beat his way to an upset victory and his share of the four thousand dollar purse that went with it.
So long as Patriot Patty wasn't in front of him once they exited turn four, he had a shot. That horse was stupid fast down the stretch. If the bitch was in the lead or had an inside line, he and Dixie LaRue were totally fucked. Dixie's owner had already lectured him, already told him that to place would be okay, to show would be acceptable, but that anything worse than that would spell trouble with a capital T. If he couldn't lead the fillie to the wire in at least third place, he knew his chances of ever running her again were somewhere between slim and none. There were only two other owners that would put him in their sulkies as it was, he couldn't afford to lose Dixie's as a client.
As they thundered up to speed out of turn two, still tight to the rolling gate, he steadied himself and planted his feet. When the bell sounded and the gates folded to the sides of the pace car, he pulled at the lines just the slightest bit -- just enough to let the front of the pack collapse on itself ahead of them. When they were passed him and there was space to do so, he tugged twice with his left hand and tucked her tightly to the rail, just where she liked it. He was running sixth as they rounded turn three... not great but not terrible, not beyond the parameters of what he had hoped for.
The track was fast and Dixie wanted to run the stretch. She had the lungs to do it, but that wasn't the plan, so he didn't like it. She pulled hard and closed in on the jockey in front of her, almost too close for Ronnie's comfort. Leaning his head just a bit, he saw the pink and white checker of Bruce Harris' silks. Fuck, it was Patriot Patty!
Letting LaRue do her thing, he left slack in the drive lines as she leaned into turn one and overtook a stalling pair of competitors on the outside. They were running fourth down the backstretch, which was perfect so far as he was concerned.
Looking to his right, though, he saw a painted fillie trying to pull alongside of them as they entered turn three for the final time. If he wasn't careful, he would end up trapped behind that cunt Patriot Patty and sandwiched to the hub all the way to the wire. That wouldn't do, there would surely be a line pressing hard out wide, a line that would blow by him like they had afterburners jammed up their asses and leave him finishing toward the back of the pack.
Terrified of the damned painted screwing him, he flicked the lines a few times to demand more out of Dixie. They were into turn four when the horse running second slowed and fell back, presumably having gassed herself in maintaining the intense pace of this particular run. She became an equine barrier that forced the painted to slow, opening up a window as the time to pull away from the hub and let loose with the whip was approaching.
Patriot Patty's jockey was already at it with his crop, shouting and beating the ever loving shit out of the horse, which was picking up speed in response and threatening to pull away. Two yanks on the right line and Dixie did as she was instructed, moving off the rail and fixing to take a run at that whore nag.
They were running third, now, with only Patriot Patty and Starshine standing between them and the full winner's purse. The track was wide open in front of them, they weren't far behind and they had every chance at an excellent finish! Starshine didn't have enough gas, she always blew up in the stretch, so second was almost assured -- and first was within reach!
Excited, Ronnie pulled back with the whip and hollered Ya! Ya! at the very top of his lungs. The wind started to whistle in his ears as Dixie really put her foot in the tank and started to close the gap. Closing in on the leaders, closing in on the wire, he was twirling his whip hand like a windmill in a blistering gale and assaulting Dixie's backside with a vengeance.
In mere moments the flashbulbs would explode, the race would be over and a winner would be declared. A reputation would be made or tarnished, a future would be assured or destroyed.
"Ya! Ya!" he cried. "Ya, Dixie, ya!"
Starshine broke down, slowing dramatically, and the pink checkered pattern of Bruce Harris' silk was drawing nearer! As Starshine fell behind, Ronnie kept up his assault and they were fixing to overtake Patriot Patty -- threatening to finish and trot like champions to the winners circle!
"Ya! Ya!"
More whipping, frantic whipping, and Dixie found her second wind! She picked up speed, just when it seemed there shouldn't be any more speed in her at all! Harris looked to his right from Patriot Patty's sulky and saw Dixie overtake his horse, the man's eyes bulging in horror and surprise as his share of the purse was shrinking! He looked like a goddamned fool, like a deer in the headlights, a bug under a magnifying glass!
They were winning, Dixie and Ronnie, they were going to take it all!
"Ya!" he urged her, begged and demanded her. "Ya baby, ya!"
Thirty yards to go, twenty-five yards and -- wait -- more speed?
How the fuck was she picking up more speed?
He had never trotted a horse so fast, had never felt the breeze so strongly except -- except in pacing races! Spooked, he looked down to her legs... her left hooves struck in unison, then the right hooves, then the left hooves, and FUCK!
She broke, the fucking heifer!
She had broken stride, started pacing instead of trotting!
She'd snatched disqualification and defeat from the jaws of victory and of triumph!
Snatched hundreds of dollars from his pocket for tonight, perhaps thousands in potential future dollars! Snatched him right out of her sulky, right out of her owner's good graces!
Pissed, he threw up his hands in disgust. The blinding flash came as he cursed, and Dixie LaRue would be in the picture. She would be in first place by a neck, but she might as well be back in the stable because all of her efforts didn't mean shit! Because she choked, because she blew it! Because he blew it by pushing her so hard!
Also in the picture, in the background -- blen
ded into the crowd gathered at the wire -- would be the face of a man who hadn't been seen in the lights of Burlwood Downs in quite some time. He would stand out on the photo distinctly for two reasons: firstly, because he was a very handsome man as compared to the faces of Joe Public around him, and secondly because he had his hands thrown up in the air, just like Ronnie James did.
Upon careful examination, a paper ticket would be seen flying from his grasp as the Inquiry light flickered to life on the infield board... a ticket on which was his wager, twenty dollars on number seven to win.
The ticket was garbage, now... not worth a red cent, not worth the paper it was printed on.
Two-hundred and eighty-four dollars, that's all Jake had left when the race was over. After paying for gas, paying for a new pack of cigarettes, paying for parking, paying for a hot dog and a coke, then dropping twenty bucks on a fucking horse that broke stride and turned his ticket to toilet paper, his financial situation was becoming dire.
He was going to need a good chunk of what was left to buy groceries to stock Chucky's fridge, or all of it if he continued eating out and had to stay for any length of time beyond a week or two. He would have to be more careful, would have to be more frugal... unless he could pick a winner in the ninth race.
It was fifteen minutes until post time for the next showdown, and he could've spent every bit of that time studying the program only to come away with no clue as to how he should bet. The facts and figures reported on its pages would serve him just as well if they were redacted, like the recently unearthed secrets of murders past, because he didn't understand what any of them meant in the scheme of things. What difference does the stretch time make if a horse is stuck in traffic? What bearing does a horse's last three finishes have on how they would stack up against the contenders of a totally different field?
Hang out by the stables, the raspy voice of Evander Hughes directed in his memory. Watch to see which horse takes a shit, and bet it all on him! What kind of horse you know can run with a belly full of shit? That's the ticket! That's the key!
As ridiculous as it was, he gave it thorough deliberation as he weighed the options and tried to decipher the tables on the paper. He watched the odds on each participant undulate as other patrons of the track cast their vote for the winner with cash-money, and it was obvious in the wild fluctuations that none of them had any idea how to bet either. The crown title of favorite changed hands more frequently than the names of some small African countries, which was frustrating as hell to him. Following the pack was a sucker bet anyway, because the payout amounts to nothing when everybody picks the winner. When a horse goes off at three-to-two, there's little to gain and the total sum of your bet to lose. Whose idea of a good time is that?
The process of trying to decide started to irritate him, primarily because this wasn't what he'd come to The Downs for in the first place, and he wasn't sure how he'd managed to get so wrapped up in it. Horse racing had never been his thing, he preferred a good game of dice or cards. Those rackets were at least honest and upfront about the fact that there was more luck involved in winning at them than there was any degree of skill. Even the most strategic Blackjack player occasionally busts out with an unexpected face card, it's all quite literally a crap shoot.
This joint, The Downs, tried to masquerade what amounted to pure chance as something that could be prognosticated by a keen and learned eye. He figured that was why he saw so many familiar faces among the crowd, they were the addicts who had enough disposable income to continue their delusive quests to master the art of predicting the results of chaos. They were older, they were more worn down, but they were largely the same faces as those that hung around the dirt back in the early to mid-nineties. There were some newbies, but the rest were the same people he used to see back when The Burlwood Boys would find a way to watch the races from Route 4, or to follow a man and wife in, pretending to be their children. All these years later, they were still at the track... still clinging to some long darkened hope that they might get it right for a change and hit it big one day. Like a leech, the track would feed on them, would suck up their money like a Dyson vacuum until they had none left, and then their welcome would expire.
While it was inherently dishonest, there was still a thrill in this activity... there was still that rush of possibilities as the field raced for the win. The pounding of the hooves, the whipping and shouting of the jockeys, the grunts of the strained horses being pushed to their physical limitations and the hollering masses cheering and jeering... the sights and sounds came together, like a symphony of adrenaline, that built to a crescendo as the rabid steeds came thundering home down the stretch, racing for the glory all the way to the wire.
It certainly wasn't without its charm, as parasitic as it was in its nature. Resigning himself to simply picking the horse with the best sounding name, he folded the program and resolved to get back to business. There were twelve minutes until post time, at least eight of which he could dedicate to studying the crowd for anything that might strike him as unusual before he would have to report to a teller to place his wager. Reconnaissance was the purpose of this visit to the park, allocating another eight minutes to that end seemed the least that he could do.
He'd awakened from his nap at just after seven-thirty, having slept harder in the hour he managed to squeeze out than he had through the duration of the prior night. Apparently, his system was growing more accustomed to being without the alcohol. His thoughts were still a bit hazy -- and he still longed for a tall seven and seven or scotch on the rocks -- but the desire was fading in intensity. Thankfully, the track wouldn't aid in derailing his progress because they only served beer... and he loathed beer with a passion.
The goal of this evening was simply to get a feel for what had become of the town. Outside of the services at Our Mother, this place was host to the largest concentration of people to be found at any given time in Burlwood. He arrived about an hour after the race card began and spent a good deal of time driving around a gravel lot, where the pleasure of parking your car costs ten fucking dollars. It wasn't gated, it wasn't well lit, it wasn't patrolled by any type of security -- it was basically a shakedown without any pretense.
Driving every aisle, he slowly crept along in search of anything that resembled a Cadillac Brougham or Dodge Ram van. He knew it wasn't likely that he would stumble upon either of his targets so auspiciously, but what could it hurt to try?
Having found nothing speficious, as Chucky used to say, he found a spot not worth a tenth of what he'd paid and locked the Malibu up tight, lest someone like him come along with their prying eyes and decide to scope out his ride. Once inside the track's lobby, he surveyed the people and found that little had changed in the small town over the many moons of his absence. The citizens and visitors congregated there looked a little more downtrodden than he remembered them being in the past, but he was kin to them when he'd last looked upon their faces. His life, at present, was probably as much a mess as he assumed theirs were, but he was returning to them in descent of a tangled and bent spiral staircase. He could still claim the esteem of looking down on them from a class or two above, for the moment, but his twisted passage would see him looking up at them before too long... both figuratively and literally, in all likelihood.
He'd hoped to cross paths with Rusty Parker, Jack Morris or Daryl Lane in his travels, but such was not to be on this night in particular. After an hour or so of taking in the lay of the land, when it became obvious that further assiduous observation would prove fruitless, he allowed himself to be sucked into the void of gambling and had yet to emerge from its grasp. There were four races left; four more chances to either squander his endowment or to bring prime rib dinners for the duration within his reach.
Nothing in the crowd caught his attention as he looked around, until the dot-matrix pattern of light bulbs on the infield board flashed in indication of a change. The second digit had fallen
dark in the Time to Post display, meaning he was down to nine minutes to place a bet. Not desiring to live on Ramen Noodles if it wasn't necessary, he deferred to the program again in a futile effort to discern the indiscernible.
Falling back to his best name strategy, his eyes were drawn to a particular listing in bold black letters. It stood out amongst the banality of titles like Black Light Stallion and Tommy's Topgun Hero, speaking to him and resonating in his mind.
It was the horse that would sport the number three and wear the black tack and cloth... the horse that was currently set to go off at five-to-one, a midfield pick with every chance of paying off. Those details were convenient, since the black suited his mood and the odds were a fine balance of risk and reward, but it was the name of the two year old colt that called to him. A name so simple and yet so profound... so perfect and so intense...
The horse was called These Truths, and that was brilliant.
We hold These Truths to be self-evident, his inner voice declared doggedly and intrepidly. That all men are created equal, except for Jacob Gigu?re -- who is an absolute fucking asshole. That he was endowed by his creators -- Garrett and Janet, CERTAINLY not God, He would never take credit for this bit of flotsam -- with a penchant to turn everything he touches from glittering gold to rancid shit. That Tracy Swete, the woman whose life he hijacked and completely destroyed, and her son, Garrett, have an unalienable right to life, liberty and the pursuit of being made whole -- through the benefit of a life insurance policy rider known as double indemnity. That, upon completion of this, the first and last unselfish act of his entirely wasted life, his continued existence becomes destructive and inhibitive to those aforementioned ends. At that time, it becomes his unalienable duty to alter and abolish himself in such form as, to him, seems most likely to be maximumly sufferable and painful, and most likely to effect the safety and happiness of those he leaves behind. When a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object, evinces a design to reduce them under him, it is his right, it is his duty, to throw himself off and find new guards for their future security.
These Truths... these fucking truths...
Folding the program and stuffing it into the pocket of his jeans, he marched into the enclosed concourse and approached an open betting window. The teller's back was turned as he approached, apparently in counting the money to balance a till or something. It was plainly obvious that he was a black man, but when he spun around at the behest of Jake clearing his throat, his familiarity became just as evident.
The recognition came with that familiar swirling, swirling of thoughts and memories, swirling like the wrinkles on the man's flesh, where none had been before, swirling like the curve at the bottom of a distinctive scar that split his face in two. Swirling like the horses turning around in their paddocks, during a tour of the stables at The Downs. Swirling in a strange and soft accent that sounded slightly French, but wasn't quite right. Swirling and I got this scar in the war, I was a soldier... that's why they call me Sarge!
There was no apperception of their aquaintance, nineteen years removed, in the dark eyes of the man wearing a name badge that read Grover. He turned and smiled warmly at what amounted to just another customer, in his mind. Kindness emanated from him in his demeanor and that smile, a grin worth at least fifteen bucks an hour in the year 2016, when it was held in the possession and control of an old and tired man.
"Good evening, sir!" Grover said wholeheartedly in that familiar soft accent. "Are you prepared to make your wager?"
It took a moment for Jake to respond, as was typical when he found himself caught in a whirlpool of reminiscence. He tried to mirror the man's graciousness when he did finally speak, but the effort was Herculean and perhaps beyond him, in the darkness of his mental state.
"Hi Sarge," he said, awkward in his delivery.
The man's head cocked a bit at the greeting, as though the sifting over of many vast volumes in the library of his memory required some form of physical exertion. He looked thoroughly puzzled as he examined Jake's face carefully, scrutinizing and comparing it to mental photographs of all the people he'd encountered in his time.
"Do I know you, young man?" he asked, still affectionate in his bewilderment.
It didn't come as a terrible surprise that Grover didn't remember Darkwing, the two of them had only crossed paths twice, to his recollection. The first time as a ships in the night incident at the Burlwood Civic Center, and the second during the school field trip to The Downs. Sarge had been their escort, and the man conducted a thorough, interesting tour complete with humor-infused insight into the world of harness racing and equine maintenance. He probably did it a hundred times with thirty students at a clip, there was no reason that Jacob should've stood out among them in his mind.
"Uh, no," Jake stammered, "not really. I grew up out here, took the tour of the stables with you... twenty years or so ago."
"Oh yes," the man grinned, "I used to love giving those tours! Sadly," he sighed, "this old body of mine just can't take standin' up all day anymore! That's why I'm doin' this now, workin' the ticket counter at least gives me a chance to sit! That's about all I'm good for, at my age!"
"I understand," Jake said, as he feigned a smile in return. "I'm not getting any younger myself."
"Forgive me and my shoddy memory, my friend!" Grover begged. "And tell me, while there's still time... who's gonna be the winner of this next race?"
"Huh?" Jake asked. There was another slight pause as he digested the question and pieced together the fact that Sarge was asking for his bet. "Oh," he resumed, "number three, please."
"Ah yes," Sarge countered, "These Truths! A fine pick, young man, a fine pick indeed! He's a beautiful young Cremello colt, gonna have a strong career ahead of him! Are you gonna try for a quinella or trifecta, or are we gonna just go with number three to win?"
"Just the win," Jake replied, "I'll be lucky if I can manage to pick that right."
"Very good, very good!" Grover praised. "And how much are you in for?"
Doing the mental math, he calculated the payout if These Truths was still going off at five-to-one. Deciding that a hundred bucks sounded nice at a twenty dollar wager, he concluded that a buck-and-a-half sounded even better at the thirty dollar level. "Thirty, please," he said.
Two-hundred and fifty-four dollars left to go... two-hundred and fifty-four dollars, or over four-hundred if the old boy turned the trick.
The old man punched a few buttons on his touchscreen display, a printer to his right firing out a stub and a receipt in response. Pulling the tickets from their cradle, Grover extended his hand to present them before he actually had the cash required to complete the transaction.
"There you are, young man!" he said.
Without being asked, Jake handed over a twenty and a ten in exchange and thanked the teller. Sarge called out good luck as he turned and walked towards the courtyard, where he would take up a position at the wire and hope for the best.
There were only two minutes left before the contest would begin, so the gate car was taking up its position and extending its arms across the width of the track. As the mechanism worked and the vehicle sat, brake lights ablaze, Jake examined its rear end and was rocked with an abrupt and accidental discovery of revelation.
The vehicle was maroon in color, but the shape and form of the American steel lines were very familiar to him and swirling, swirling. A swirling coat of arms, one that belonged to the family of Baron Sylvester, but was most famous for having been borrowed by one Antoine de la Mothe Cadillac... an emblem that was emblazoned on the tail end of every Fleetwood Brougham ever produced, an emblem that was polished and shining under a thin film of Burlwood dust as the gate car sat and waited for the horses to approach.
His eyes wide, he pulled them down from the ornament and searched for the vehicle's license plate. There wasn't one, this car had been modified and was no longer street legal, no l
onger worthy of the road, no longer required to be registered.
Christ, could it be?
As the car started to roll, crunching on the surface of the track under its old and haggard tires, Jake studied it like it was the Rosetta Stone. The field drew close behind it as it rounded the corner, including the illustrious albino-looking contender These Truths.
He wasn't concerned with watching how his pick behaved as the gates swung open and the starting bell sounded, he was focused, instead, on trying to ascertain exactly what it said on either side of the pace car. It pulled away from the pack in their first turn and led the way, rounding the bend that would bring it down the stretch and afford him a closer look at the beige letters on its quarter panels that were just a blur in the distance at present. Inside the vehicle, he could see the shadowy silhouette of a larger than life driver focused on the track as another form clutched what appeared to be a microphone in the passenger seat. That one was scanning the action behind them frantically, providing a play-by-play narrative that shook the air as it spilled from loudspeakers over the grandstands, where the gathered masses hooted and hollered.
As it came roaring around turn four, the dust billowing up behind it, there was a moment at which the outline of the microphone was situated such that, from his vantage point, Jake would've sworn that it was a little boy's foot sticking up over the headrest of the back seat. In the yellow light cast down by floodlamps from above, the color of the vehicle itself seemed to change. It seemed to turn blue as the cinders of dirt and memory were swirling, swirling in its wake.
The amalgamation of stimuli in coincidence took him back, far back, to a place he never thought he'd be again... to a place he never desired to revisit... to a moment that would live in infamy in the recesses of his mind... to the gravel lot of Our Mother Of Sorrows, to the carnival, to the outhouses, to the blue car and oh God, where's Timmy? Is that his foot? Jesus Christ, what's happened? What have I done? Why wasn't I watching for him? Fuck me, it's all my fault! Fuck me, I let The Butcher have him, and he's gone!
Gone, forever!
The rumble was deafening as the car and the horses blew by him, These Truths holding on to a narrow lead as Jake felt the blast of wind that marked their passing. It was as crushing and as demoralizing as the passing of Timmy Lane had been, and it shook him to his core. Nearly blown over by the gust in his trembling, he focused on those beige letters... those potential clues to the mystery at hand.
FGSI Services... that's what the letters spelled.
FGSI Services, Blackmoor, Indiana.
He repeated the title in his mind, his thoughts racing, his heart pounding. FGSI, FGSI, FGSI, FGSI, FGSI -- have to remember! -- FGSI, FGSI, FGSI, FGSI, FGSI... Blackmoor was easy, it was the next town over to the east, Services was superfluous, it didn't matter. What mattered, what he needed to remember was FGSI, FGSI, FGSI, FGSI.
The race continued back into the far turn, the Cadillac and the horses disappearing behind the infield board for a few moments before they resurfaced in the backstretch. These Truths was still at the pole, but he was being challenged aggressively by a contender on the outside. The gate car continued to lead them, the driver driving and the commentator doing his thing. The crowd surged in their cheering as the pack tightened up, every horse on the dirt fighting for position and striving for the crown.
Then, as they entered the final turn, Jake's attention was drawn to a disturbance among the people gathered near the rail where the homestretch began. He saw a horde of men who seemed particularly enthused about something, but none of them was watching the action on the track. Several were bent at the waist, hovering over something. Some of them seemed pleased at what they were watching while others looked angry and disturbed. The commotion doubled when a fist flew up into the air, the arm to which it was attached almost reaching a state of hyperextension. It was a fight, this one the more literal type than that taking place beyond the fence, where These Truths was being overtaken and falling back.
Jake watched the action, not inclined to step in and restore order until -- until -- he heard a definitively feminine cry come from the center of the mass. Christ, some thug was taking his aggression out on a woman!
That he could not let stand, that he could not be complicit in by simply standing by and watching, that seemed totally unacceptable to him, despite the fact that he himself had raised his hand to Tracy Swete Gigu?re not more than forty-eight hours ago.
His calves fired immediately, sending him tearing through the crowd before he knew what was happening. Pushing and shoving people out of his way with abandon, he was engulfed in the pile of humanity within mere seconds of having set off. The gawkers pulled away quickly in the presence of an enforcer, revealing to him a middle-aged cretin who needed a shave and shower worse than any other man Jake had ever met. He had his victim mounted, her petite frame trapped to the pavement by his crotch, which was crushing her sternum with his weight. Her arms were out turned and covering her face, which was the target of his assault.
Never one to take a cheap shot, the would-be hero peeled the villain off of the woman with handfuls of his denim jacket. Applying every bit of force he could muster with his triceps, he flung the man backwards and sent him crashing to the ground, just as Tracy had crashed to the mattress during the contention of his last bout. There was a look of shock upon the stranger's face, likely at the fury of Jake's applied strength, but he leapt to his feet and took a charge at Sir Galahad for his insolence.
More than happy to oblige, Jake met his challenge and drew back his right fist. The attacker opted to take the body, wrapping his arms around Jake and dragging him down to the rough concrete in an effort to mount him, as he had the woman. Little did the fool know, Jacob Gigu?re was an experienced practicioner in the fistic arts both on the feet and on the ground alike.
He was in a compromising position on the bottom only briefly, until another set of spastic flections brought about a reversal, and it was the brave knight on top of the hill. Pinning the man to the the ground, he had a chance to impose his will from above. He felt his jeans being ripped at and torn by the pavement as he braced himself to strike, springing forward into the punch by pushing off with his knees and pronated feet.
The impact of his tightly locked fist with the spongy flesh of the man's cheek was glorious. It made a beautiful thwack that made his blood pump to unexpected places with haste. Reveling in it, he pulled his right hand back again as he held tight to the denim jacket with the left. The second thwack was accompanied by a crunch, he'd caught a piece of nose with it, which made it all the more pleasurable. There was a spraying of blood, but from the man's nose instead of Jacob's throbbing penis, which felt as though it would burst. Bordering on orgasmic in his rage and thorough enjoyment, he let loose a third blow that certainly separated his opponent from consciousness for at least a few moments. The fourth hook was unnecessary and in excess, but he just couldn't resist.
His hand was throbbing, in concert with his heart and cock, so he straightened his back and tried to steady his breathing. The onlookers seemed in awe of him as he sat upon his throne of conquered flesh, the ballyhoo having quieted when the incident crossed the line and moved from freak show curiosity to mad-dog attack territory. His gratification unstifled by their distaste of what he had done, he flicked his hand to shake off the lingering pain.
Standing erect, as his dick was, he moved toward the crumpled frame of the woman on the ground, only to discover that it wasn't a woman at all. The person holding her bloodied lip and watching him approach was no more than just a girl, and a familiar one at that... it was Nikki... the waitress from the diner.
"Are you okay?" he asked, reaching out his left hand to help her up since his right was still screaming.
Stunned at what had transpired and grateful for his assistance, she nodded slightly as a tear fell from one of her smoke colored eyes. In her shock, she didn't take Jake's hand im
mediately. Moving it closer to her, he prodded with a glance for her to grab it. When she did, he felt the fire within her like a bolt of electricity passing through him. It was another osmotic symbiosis, intense and incredible beyond any verbalization. He felt one with her, like he was inside of her, as he pulled her to her feet.
"Asshole!" a gurgling voice called from behind. "You broke my fucking nose!"
It could've only been one person, but could he possibly have the balls? Turning to look, he saw that it was, indeed, the felled reject -- daring to address him. He cast daggers at the fool with his glare, assuring him there was more where the ass beating came from, if he desired to have another taste of it.
"The whore took my wallet!" he accused in a blood congested slur. "It wasn't any of your fucking business!"
Pausing to think, Jake turned his eyes back to Nikki standing beside him. She locked those gray pupils on his with fortitude and shook her head, denying the charge.
Before he could probe any further, another man approached them where they stood. He stopped mid-stride and raised his hands, as if he were under arrest, when Jake's head snapped around to warn him to keep back. "Relax, guy," he said, "I'm not looking for trouble... I was just gonna tell y'all that y'all should get out of here, quickly, if you want to avoid explaining this to the police!"
It was wise advice, especially considering the fact that Jake had his Beretta strapped to his side in violation of the track's policy. That amounted to a crime, as did pounding in the face of some drunken bum. Eager to get out, he returned his attention to Nikki and asked a simple question that would have lasting ramifications.
"Did you drive yourself?"
"No," she answered, physical and emotional pain obvious in her voice as she bent over to pick up perhaps the smallest purse that Jake had ever seen.
"Then come on, I'll have to give you a ride."
TWENTY-SIX
