A Good Kicking Is Hard to Find
by Rupert Merkin
I like to say of myself that I am, actually, well educated both in terms of schooling and in terms of manners, and so it is always with amusement that I find myself hollering insults towards some shaven-headed thug or other. A bully boy, that's what my father would call him. With his knuckles dragged low, a mean expression, and chunky black boots.
Just like this one here across the road.
Standing here, outside The Wayward Man pub, on this lovely cobbled street corner in Soho, I call out to the perm-haired, orange-tanned girl I can only assume is his good lady, "One, two, piss on your shoe, three-four shoot the whore!"
He turns to me and wrinkles up his heavyset brow. I'm not surprised he is annoyed. I would be too.
There is nothing harder for a man to admit to oneself than the fact that he is a coward. I'm in prime shape for a man of my age, with oarsman shoulders and rugby thighs, just peaking the thirty hill this March. I met Julienna, my wife, in St Tropez, on a boy's bash following university. I remember her pretty smile, and how her white teeth gleamed in the moonlight as we lay kissing on the sand.
On the off chance my bully boy here is thinking about leaving me be, on the off chance he's thinking that violence is not the answer, I yell at his lady, "You have weeping piles, halitosis, dandruff, an unfaithful husband, and druggie kids!"
That should resolve the situation in my favour.
So here we were, my lovely Julianne and I, a year ago now. A year since she last opened her eyes. Loitering outside The Wayward Man on a Sunday, enjoying the end of summer. Friends came and went; we ate a Sunday lunch. The afternoon blended into the evening. I'd drunk too many pints, actually, I never could take my ales, and as sunlight became streetlights we were joshing about outside, Julianne and I, kissing and frolicking like any frisky young couple.
"Go on son, get in there," shouted a rough, common voice in our direction.
Without looking up I replied, with simple charm, "Actually, you fuck off."
And then Julianne was yanked away from me and I, for my utterance, was pushed hard in the chest. Two of them, prime bully boys, stinking of cider and tobacco, grasped my girl and stared me down. One had a shaved head and big round sovereign rings, and the other a blur of blue ink tattoos dancing up his arms.
Sovereign Rings called me a queer boy and asked me if Julienne was actually a man. At first I froze, not able to breathe or even to make words in my mouth. Suddenly the streets seemed so quiet.
"Not so fucking lippy now are you eh?" he said.
Tattoos slapped Julianne round the cheek and said to me, "Come on mouth, come get your little slut." When I did nothing he slapped her harder. I remember the crimson stain of his hand on Julianne's cheek. She started to cry and pleaded at me to make them stop.
Fortunately, my instincts manifested and I plunged into immediate action. I wasn't going to let them have the better of me! In an act of pure manliness that I will forever carry, to the grave even, I sprung into action. Holding my hands up, with my palms out, I backed away from them, and pressed up against the wall.
Sovereign Rings drove a punch into Julianne's face, just below her right eye. I heard a crack. I stood motionless, silent. He punched her again. Tattoos held her and chortled as if we were sharing the funniest joke in the world. One final punch and then Tattoos threw her to the pavement. Her head bounced off the kerb with a dull thud. They sauntered away, laughing and backslapping.
Julianne was unconscious. I knelt down, wrung my hands, and shouted for help. Blood was streaming from her nose. Her mouth was open, her white teeth stained with scarlet. Her jaw looked knocked out of place. She had a violent gash on her cheekbone. My manly tears spilled onto her face.
She never woke up from her coma. They say she never will.
My bully boy's only a metre in front of me now and closing in fast. On the off chance he's thinking of not giving me the damn good kicking I deserve, and they all do pause when they see my face, which I keep hidden with low pulled baseball cap for I am quite a sight these days, I tell him most sincerely, "You must thank your good lady slut for the ride last week."
Rupert Merkin's an old fella who's been around a bit and lived his life, and just likes writing down some stories every now and then. Some people like them and have even been kind enough to publish a few, most recently at: The Harrow, Opium, and The Hiss Quarterly.