Crescent
The knife reflected the dull lights of the hardware store, tiny yellow suns, a row of them across the blade. I stared at it, held high above the head of the weird looking guy with the crazy fro. A car horn went off, somewhere far down the street, and the blade came down fast. I took a step back, some sort of fight or flight thing taking over, but not quick enough. The edge slid through my store apron, sliced open my jeans and part of my thigh. The cut wasn’t very deep, it took a second for the blood to rise, and then run down my leg.
“Straddle the line, my ass. In fact, straddle my ass,” Fro-guy yelled.
The yellow suns were stained red, and the blade was coming back, higher, about neck high, I guessed.
I don’t remember how the crescent wrench ended up in my hand - things were pretty damn dream-like - but I swung it and made perfect contact with the knife. There was a clang like in those old swordfighting movies with Errol Flynn, and the knife skidded across the tiled floor. While crazy Fro-guy turned to grab it, I backhanded him with another swing of the wrench. It wasn’t so much a clang as a fleshy thud combined with the sound of a jaw breaking. I watched the guy hit the floor and then stay there.
It was turning out to be a helluva Monday.
“Hey, Larry, you wanna—”
I was stopped in mid-sentence by the sight of Larry, our plumbing expert, hurtling toward me with a plunger in one hand and 14 volt cordless drill in the other. Not sure what he was going to do with the plunger, but he was definitely looking to drill a few pilot holes in my skull. I let the wrench fly, it did a half a turn before catching Larry right between the eyes. He joined the other guy on the floor, giving one last spin of the cordless on his way down. It was like watching a toy run out of batteries.
The door jangled and two old guys came in waving the business end of shotguns. I knew they weren’t look for returns, so I dove behind the metal shelving as the bald one racked and fired. It took out half the light fixture – the rest of the blast was swallowed by the boxed air mattress on the top shelf. Fro-guy was up now and yelling at the two who just came in.
“Broad side of a barn is just an expression you peckerwoods! Take him out!”
My leg throbbed. I’d only started to feel it. The lights sputtered and the live wires crackled. The other old guy, with a wispy beard and a long Fu-Manchu, had slightly better aim. He took out the large air conditioner at about my eye level, but one aisle over.
“Oh for fuck’s sake.”
Fro-guy picked up his knife, a large purple circle covered half his face, but there was no blood, and nothing seemed out of place.
“When you want something done--”
He didn’t finish because he was interrupted by the vehicle now parked in the middle of the hardware store, just left of the cash. A micro-second before I'd watched it smash through the front windows, ran over the guy with the fu-manchu and clipped Baldy before screeching to a smoking, squealing halt. A couple of guys wearing yellowed t-shirts jumped out of the front doors and came out firing. Unbelievably, Larry had risen from the floor, shaking off the blow to the head and came at me. The guys in the orange Charger had a lot better aim than the senior citizens. A couple of blasts later, Larry was back on the floor. Too bad, I always kind of liked him and those homemade donuts of his wife’s.
The guy with the bad hair had just stood there in the mddle of the store, letting it all happen, with a disgusted look on his face, like someone had used the wrong wax on his car. The Charger guys swung their guns in his direction.
“Cute. I thought I killed you guys once. Wanna explain?”
“Jedidiah was only wounded.”
“So you found a loop and you came back,” Fro-guy started, “and with the same damn car.”
“Put the knife down and the hands up, Harold.”
Harold. That’s the name. I know that name.
“A knife against shotguns. How is that even a thing?” Harold said.
“Put it—”
A knife appeared in the good ole boy’s chest - so fast it was like it had just popped out of him.
The other one with the Nascar hat opened up - but he fired into nothing. A space between the tiles had exposed a black hole, and now slid together. While the Nascar guy studied the floor, I grabbed a long-handled pipe wrench.
“I warn ya, I’m fairly decent with this. I took him down.” I nodded my head toward the very dead, Larry.
“Did you notice how he didn’t stay down?” He put the gun down at his side. “Anyway, settle the fuck down and help me get Jedidiah in the car.”
I hefted the wrench in my hand - too damn heavy to throw, anyway. I let it clang to the floor.
I helped lift the also very dead Jedidiah off the tile floor. His yellow shirt had a red oval in the middle of it where the knife had gone in, but the knife was gone like candle smoke.
“I swear this boy needs to lay off the corn dogs.”
Nascar grunted as we stuffed his buddy into the back seat of the Charger.
“Get in.”
“Where are going?”
“No surprise you got a swiss cheese head right now, but do you really not remember a damn thing?”
“I knew him,” I said.
“No shit, Sherlock. And not half as much as he knew you.” He cranked the engine and drove out the hole he’d created on the way in.
As my hometown disappeared in the rear view I asked again.
“Where’d you say we’re going?”
“We need to get back to the big guy. But first we’re going have to find a loop.”
“Oh.”
I figured I might as well sit back and enjoy the ride. Especially since I had no clue of what he’d just said.
“Hey, you got any tapes?” I pointed at the 8-track. “I’ve had Elvis in my head all morning.”
“Well, at least you got half a brain left.”
Nascar reached behind the seat, grabbed a red plastic square and drove it into the player.
“Long live the King.”
Nascar gave a howl and buried the speedometer.
Monday, February 11, 2013 at 10:46PM 
