V I C K I G R A N T
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lean-mean-fighting-machine types. Even the arm
without a hand was all pumped.
He saw me looking and said, “Hundred and
fifty push-ups a day is all it takes. Pretty good, eh,
for an amputee.” He grabbed his wrist and made his
muscles pop.
I pretended it was nothing special. I said, “Oh,
please. I was just looking at your tattoos. Maybe if you
hadn’t wasted so much money on them, you wouldn’t
have to be mooching meals off a single mother.”
He laughed and said, “You sure are smart for a
little fella,” and I knew I had to beat him. He put
his right elbow on the old packing crate we use as a
coffee table, and I grabbed the stump with my hand.
There was a squishy bit on the top that was really
gross. He had one ounce of fat on his entire body, and
it just so happened to be the part I had to grab on to.
He said, “One, two, three, go,” and the match was
over. Byron flattened me. It was pathetic.
He said, “Sorry,” which he wasn’t, then, “What say
we even things up here a bit? You try her with both
arms this time.”
I was going to say something like “bite me,” but I
knew it was the only chance I had. I said, “Whatever”
and grabbed the stump with both hands.
