As the hoodlum spoke, he eased his right hand from the jacket pocket just enough to show brass-knuckles on his fist; he smiled showing the blackened, rotted teeth. Gramps took notice of the weapon he had identified when the creep had accosted the elderly lady on the bench.
Black-teeth started to say something as
he took a deliberate step meant as an intimidating threat toward his newest
victim; whatever the dimwit intended to say never reached his greasy, thin lips
for audible-pronouncement. What emanated from his mouth was a surprised “Ugh!”
In a three-second blur, rotten-teeth
found himself lying on his backside with Gramps towering over him. His hand had
slipped from the pocket and an object lay harmlessly beside it; the
brass-knuckle weapon had made an audible “solid”-thunk as it had hit the pavement. The would-be thief’s head buzzed
and the suddenly incapacitated “wanna-be” thug blinked his dark eyes rapidly,
trying to discern what had just happened to ruin his “perfect shake-down”
scheme.
His smashed nose bled profusely; his
absent teeth left a vacant, black hole; his right foot lay askew; his leg hurt
like nothing he had ever felt before. Gramps thought the “baby” might cry.
Toothless shook his head in disbelief at
the rapid turn of events. “Who are
you? Mister!?”
“Veteran! U.S.M.C.! Viet Nam! 1967!
Son!” He smiled. “And---you can call
me…‘Sir!/”
(Part 4 of 4 Tomorrow)
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