Lucky Dog (4)
Bud wasn’t going to wait for permission to kick the shit out of Harvey. This guy had crossed a line, and he would have to pay.
He looked Harvey in the eye and said, “Stop jawing and let’s do this, asshole.”
Harvey chortled and stubbed his cigarette: “Stop jawing and let’s do this. All right, Buddy-boy, way to go. You are one tough cocksucker, man.” He held up his fists and punched the space between Bud and him, chuckling. “And you do suck cocks.”
Bud narrowed his gaze to the bottom of Harvey’s chin. He stuck his fists up, not loosely like this boozed-up comedian, but flexed and tight—like he meant business. He wanted nothing more than to bust this clown up.
Harvey motioned like he was punching gloves over his head and stripped off the robe. Harvey was seven or eight years older than Bud—not many men his age could carry off the Euro bikini look, but Harvey did cut an impressive if appalling figure. He flexed his biceps and sucked in his gut.
Harvey was just about to spout off again, when Bud’s right fist smashed the side of his mouth. The blow knocked his head back, but he rebounded. Bud shouldered in to his chest and landed three rapid punches to his gut, which sent him sprawling over the coffee table. The glass shattered, and the oak frame split where Harvey’s back landed.
Bud grabbed Harvey by the head and hoisted him to his feet. Harvey swung wildly, landing two or three glancing blows to Bud’s ribcage. The two men careened away from the crumpled table.
Bud hurled Harvey face first to the wall. Harvey howled in pain. A floor lamp crashed to the tile. Bud clawed his back, and his shoulders arched back in a spasm. Bud grabbed the back of his thinning hair and swung him over to the opposite wall. Harvey collapsed before hitting drywall, but his body skidded a good five feet cross the tiled floor.
Bud bent over Harvey and grabbed the waistband of his tights, using them to lift his midsection, all the better to punch his gut with his free fist. At first, Harvey reflexively tightened his abs, and Bud’s knuckles landed with a solid smack. As Harvey tired, though, his belly relaxed, and the punches sounded like they were landing on pudding.
Harvey coughed up booze and blood, yet Bud did not relent. He drove his knee into Harvey’s ribcage. Harvey screamed and tears rolled out of his eyes. Bud straddled his chest, drove his butt down hard to drive the wind out of Harvey’s lungs, and then, pulling his head up by one of his ears, he raised his fist high overhead and pounded it full force to Harvey’s formerly aquiline nose.
(To be continued)
He looked Harvey in the eye and said, “Stop jawing and let’s do this, asshole.”
Harvey chortled and stubbed his cigarette: “Stop jawing and let’s do this. All right, Buddy-boy, way to go. You are one tough cocksucker, man.” He held up his fists and punched the space between Bud and him, chuckling. “And you do suck cocks.”
Bud narrowed his gaze to the bottom of Harvey’s chin. He stuck his fists up, not loosely like this boozed-up comedian, but flexed and tight—like he meant business. He wanted nothing more than to bust this clown up.
Harvey motioned like he was punching gloves over his head and stripped off the robe. Harvey was seven or eight years older than Bud—not many men his age could carry off the Euro bikini look, but Harvey did cut an impressive if appalling figure. He flexed his biceps and sucked in his gut.
Harvey was just about to spout off again, when Bud’s right fist smashed the side of his mouth. The blow knocked his head back, but he rebounded. Bud shouldered in to his chest and landed three rapid punches to his gut, which sent him sprawling over the coffee table. The glass shattered, and the oak frame split where Harvey’s back landed.
Bud grabbed Harvey by the head and hoisted him to his feet. Harvey swung wildly, landing two or three glancing blows to Bud’s ribcage. The two men careened away from the crumpled table.
Bud hurled Harvey face first to the wall. Harvey howled in pain. A floor lamp crashed to the tile. Bud clawed his back, and his shoulders arched back in a spasm. Bud grabbed the back of his thinning hair and swung him over to the opposite wall. Harvey collapsed before hitting drywall, but his body skidded a good five feet cross the tiled floor.
Bud bent over Harvey and grabbed the waistband of his tights, using them to lift his midsection, all the better to punch his gut with his free fist. At first, Harvey reflexively tightened his abs, and Bud’s knuckles landed with a solid smack. As Harvey tired, though, his belly relaxed, and the punches sounded like they were landing on pudding.
Harvey coughed up booze and blood, yet Bud did not relent. He drove his knee into Harvey’s ribcage. Harvey screamed and tears rolled out of his eyes. Bud straddled his chest, drove his butt down hard to drive the wind out of Harvey’s lungs, and then, pulling his head up by one of his ears, he raised his fist high overhead and pounded it full force to Harvey’s formerly aquiline nose.
(To be continued)
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