Dastardly Bastard(42)

“The world’s not so bad,” Donald lied again.

“You remember!” The dead-Sunne thing growled, shaking its head. “You remember what they did to me while you were small and useless. You remember how you were a coward!”

“I tried—”

“You tried nothing!” That final word hung on the air, a discarded note echoing off the cavern walls.

Donald’s mind was hopping back and forth, fighting to hold on to reality. He felt if he were to give up his grasp, for just a second, his mind would be lost forever.

“I loved you,” Donald pleaded, his heart bleeding. “Don’t you know that? Somewhere deep inside you know how much it hurt me… to have to watch… to have to be held down… to have you taken like that!”

“You feel nothing!”

“I felt you.” Donald looked into those dead eyes. They seemed to calm for the briefest instant.

Then, the rage returned. A ghastly hand, bones showing through in ragged patches, wrapped around his throat.

“You remember!”

Donald struggled to breathe. His vision grew an edge, blurring until the world changed, and he was thrust out into the cold.

Sunne, her coat draped around her shoulders, held Donald’s hand as they left Chez Martinique. They walked along in the cool evening, enjoying each other’s company. Neither owned a car—no need to in New York City—and Donald was glad for that. It meant more time spent with Sunne on the way back to her place.

They moved down 42nd Street, Donald happier than he’d ever been in his life. Sunne hummed a familiar song.

“Look at the short shit!” a rough voice yelled. “Little dude’s off to see the Wizard with his Hong Kong Dorothy, I betcha!”

“Ignore them,” Sunne said. She didn’t know just how hard that request would be to fulfill. A wan smile crossed her face, and Donald decided to try.

The crew consisted of three young hoodlums out for a night on the town. They were dressed in white jeans at least two sizes too big and blue tank tops. The clothing screamed of gang colors, but Donald didn’t know enough to judge which gang they might represent. One of the guys was black, the other two white. All of them were walking directly toward Donald and Sunne.

“Off to see the Wizard! The wonderful Wizard of Oz!” The guy had a lazy eye. His good pupil glared at Donald, while the other stared at his own nose.

The three fanned out, blocking Donald’s path.

“Excuse us,” Donald said.

The shorter white guy, a wiry, crackhead-looking type, picked at his yellowed teeth with a fingernail, grinning over his knuckles. A long scar ran from his cupid’s bow, over his lips, to the cleft in his chin.

“She’s cute, short round.” Lazy-Eye nodded at Sunne, but kept his eyes on Donald. “Where’d you snag her? Rent-A-Fuck?”

“Just let us go. We no want trouble,” Sunne said. Donald was surprised by the confidence in her voice.

“Just let us goooooooo… We no want trouble… Me love you long time!” Lazy-Eye mocked.

The smallest of the group, a young black kid who looked as terrified as Donald felt, said, “Yo, guys… guys, I gotta get home. For real.”

“Beat feet, Bone,” Lazy-Eye replied. “We got shit to do.”

The black kid turned and bolted.

“You let us go,” Sunne said boldly, thrusting her chest out with the comment.

“Ah, shut the fuck up.” Lazy-Eye reared back and slapped Sunne across the face. Her head snapped to the side.

“Hey!” Donald, taken off guard, responded a little late. “Fuck off, asshole!” He shoved Lazy-Eye hard in the gut.

He was popped in the face by what he could only guess was Scar-Lip’s fist. Donald bit the inside of his cheek and tasted blood.

“You first.” Lazy-Eye cackled. He threw his own punch. Donald felt something in his nose give way. “Get rid of this short shit, will ya?”

Donald, still reeling from both hits, stumbled back and landed on his rump. He felt himself being pulled off the ground, someone’s hands under his armpits.

“Get your… fucking hands… off me,” Donald wheezed.

Scar-Lip dragged him to the stairs of the brownstone across the street and tossed him onto the first step. He put a boot in Donald’s chest and pushed him back against the cold concrete.

Donald leaned around Scar-Lip’s foot and watched as Lazy-Eye disappeared into an alleyway, Sunne in tow.

“Bring her back!” Donald cried, coughing blood onto Scar-Lip’s shoe.

“See what the fuck you did?” The hood wiped the blood off his Doc Martins with his fingers and cleaned his hand on Donald’s dress shirt.

Without thinking too much about what he was doing, Donald punched the thug as hard as he could in the eye while the guy was still bent over.

Scar-Lip stumbled back, holding the side of his face. Donald tackled the guy, rolling him into the street. He pounded Scar-Lip’s throat with his fists, while kicking the man in the crotch.

The man’s flesh cracked like dropped china. A thick, gooey blackness oozed from the segmented skin, covering Donald’s hands. He kicked one more time before his foot got caught.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Donald growled. He pulled his hand away, inky strands of blackened membrane coming with it. He rolled off the man and scurried away on his hands and knees. A few feet away, he got to his feet. He hobbled to the alleyway where Lazy-Eye had retreated with Sunne.