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"Howdie."
Looking up from the gas pump nozzle, Vincent was greeted by a plummeting red boxing glove to the face.
Whump!
Vincent stumbled from the strike and fell against his '87 yellow Trans-Am. "My nose!"
The attacker danced back and forth, concealing his identity behind the big, red boxing gloves. Occasionally, he'd
punch the air, exhaling with every strike. "Said 'howdie!'" he puffed.
Blood streamed from Vincent's mangled nose as he staggered to his feet. "Who are you, man? You want somethin'
from me?" He wiped the blood on the collar of his blue and green Hawaiian shirt.
The boxing freak answered him with an uppercut under Vincent's chin. "Hey, hey, purdy boy!" he taunted.
"I gots somethin' to tell ya!" He brought his guard down and, with both fists, slammed Vincent up against
his car by his shoulders.
Vincent was face-to-face with a burly old man. The old man's well-aged face was flushed with exhaustion and vengeance.
His prominent cheekbones ran parallel to his square jaw which was held in a taut grimace of anger. A few wispy
white hairs formed what looked like half a halo on the back of his bald head and connected to a pair of white sideburns
that streaked down the side of his face like lightning bolts. He wore a simple, neatly-pressed black suit coat
that was buttoned up to the base of his thick neck. Over the collar of his coat a ruffled, grayish-white scarf
protruded like a storm cloud that seemed to keep his thunderbolt of a head from falling onto his broad shoulders.
He looked like somebody straight out of an 18th-century English Parliament meeting, except for the boxing gloves.
"I ain't got all day, so you'da best be listenin' to me or I'll smash yer gonies so hard that yer nex' chiddens
they be born done dead, purty boy," spat the man. His bloodshot eyes seemed to penetrate Vincent's soul.
"Okay, dude, just settle down," Vincent tried to reason as blood from his broken nose trickled into the
corners of his mouth.
The old man shoved him harder into the side of the car. "Shuddup! Listen!"
"I'm listening, Gramps!" snapped Vincent.
There was a long beeeeeeeeep from the gas pump and the final price blinked on the screen. $18.48. The smell of
gasoline lingered in the air.
"Oh!" said the attacker, suddenly. His eyes widened and he stepped back from Vincent. "My time is
up!" He whirled around and struck the gas pump as hard as he could.
Vincent slid around the side of his car, trying to sneak into the driver side door and floor it out of the Mobil
Mart.
The boxer spun around and extended his right arm toward Vincent like he was pointing a gnarly finger at the young
man under his glove. "I come backta git you, lil' scum bucket. Just wait yerself an' I come back again one
way 'er 'nother, ya hear me, purty boy?" He grinned and slammed the back of his other fist into the gas pump,
causing it to beep again. Then he vanished into thin air like an apparition.
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