NOVEL FROG 14: We Had a Merry Old Time Curb-stomping the Old Lady
Mickey stood in the spotlight, staring at the figure like it was the goddamn showdown at the O.K Corral. Western music played in my head just looking at them. For a moment, they both stood completely still, waiting for the other to make the first move. The rational part of my brain was scared shitless, but another part of me wanted to jump from the cover and join them in their standoff. What was I doing cowering back here when I had actual fucking super powers? My entire body started to itch underneath my skin. Sitting there doing nothing started to feel like torture.
I jumped out from cover, shot a fist-sized slime blast at the silhouette, and charged towards it like a frenzied Viking from its left side. It turned and shot a cannonball at me. If it took out my other arm, I’d be useless, but Mickey stepped in front of me and swung his bat, making perfect contact with the iron ball and sending it rolling away from us.
“Holy shit,” I said. I didn’t mean to compliment Mickey, but that was genuinely impressive.
“Never played baseball a day in my life. Can you believe it?” he said.
“Y’all really think swingin’ that bat’s gon’ save you? Bless your hearts, y’all don’t know a thing about these marks,” said a sweet, soft voice.
The figure finally stepped from the shadows into the light to reveal a tiny old woman encased in a full set of crude iron armor. Her jowls hung slightly over the rugged breastplate.
“Are you the lady from the—”
“Yes,” she interrupted me, “you met me when you drove by my house not too long ago. I should’ve kilt you then, but my damn pills hadn’t kicked in yet. They’re workin’ now though, I’ll tell you that much.”
She was fast. Even in her thick armor, she moved like a hybrid between a ballerina and a linebacker. She danced towards us like a raging bull. Her iron gauntlets had jagged spikes on the knuckles, and she swung at Mickey. It was clear she had trained in the art of boxing; she threw a couple of jabs and then a fierce right hook, but Mickey bobbed and weaved around the combo. He countered with a wild swing at her face — the only part of her body that was exposed — and made hard contact. The old lady stumbled back a couple of feet, but was otherwise undisturbed.
While she was occupied with Mickey, I felt a tingling in the recesses of my brain. I had a powerful urge to slime this bitch to smithereens, but the more front-facing part of my mind rejected the notion.
She probably weighs seven-hundred pounds in that suit. She wouldn’t even fall over, and it’d just make the area harder for Mickey to navigate.
Still, I wanted to do something.
She killed your father in front of you. She hunted you down like an animal. Kill her.
Anger welled up inside me watching the two exchange blows in a perfect stalemate. They just kept going and going, not going anywhere. I moved behind her and grabbed the back of her cold iron helmet. She swung an elbow and hit me in the chest, but I took it without flinching — even though it hurt like hell. Before she could swing again, I pushed her head forward and shot the highest-pressure stream of slime I could muster from the pal of my hand. The force of the slime geyser sent her crashing to the ground. Her head bounced on the concrete driveway and rang like a bell. She rolled over, but didn’t seem able to get up from a lying position while wearing all of that armor, and she made it disappear. She was wearing a yellow skirt and a gray cardigan, both of which were drenched in sweat. The cardigan mostly covered the mark on her arm, but straight black lines going in every direction were clear to see on her right hand.
Mickey lunged to straddle her, presumably with the intention of beating her face in, but she was too fast now that she had dropped all of that weight. She was already faster than a normal person with the armor on, but now that she was unburdened, she was terrifyingly quick. She sprang up from the ground and shot a cannonball out of both hands, one at me and one at Mickey. We were both taken by surprise and she connected with both shots. Mickey was hit in the stomach and fell to the ground. I was hit in my other shoulder, and it cracked through my bones once again.
My arms hung uselessly at my sides. My body itched furiously, so deeply that I couldn’t tell where it even started. I closed my eyes and felt a sloshing in my stomach. I felt full, bloated, and furious. I opened my mouth and a jet of slime hurled out of my throat and clobbered the old woman on the side of her head. Her neck snapped back from the force; she looked equally dazed and disgusted. I did it again and got her in the windpipe. She choked out a raspy grunt of exasperation, and shot another cannonball at me. I took it right to the shoulder again. I yelled in pain, but didn’t stop shooting. We exchanged shots for several minutes. I was able to get out of the way of some of them, but a few balls hit my arms and broke them in several places, leaving me with fucked-up zigzags hanging from my torso. It didn’t matter. I just kept shooting out of my mouth, knocking her back and hindering her movements.
On my last shot, I got her directly in her left eye, and it popped right out of her head.
I didn’t even mean to. I almost felt bad when she started rolling on the ground, screaming in pain, covering her eye socket with her hands while blood seeped through her fingers. I almost felt bad, but I didn’t. Not at all. Instead, I laughed at the scene. I stood there, white-hot pain shooting from my arms, down my spine, and up to my brain stem, and I laughed.
Mickey caught his breath and got back on his feet, and he started to laugh too. She was really freaking out — shrieking like a banshee, rolling around, kicking her legs in the air. It was a little silly, honestly. Mickey kicked her severed eyeball down the driveway and into the street.
“This is what happens when you fuck with the Bum Squad, you old bitch!” Mickey said. He kicked her in the ribs and she coughed, causing a spurt of blood to come out of her eye socket. It was sort of fucked up. He probably shouldn’t have done that.
I did it too.
We had a merry old time curb-stomping the old lady. It’s a good feeling, mercilessly beating someone who you were afraid of just a couple of minutes ago. It helped that she seemed hard to kill. We kicked her over and over and she just kept breathing.
“Alright, I think that’s enough, boys.” Anita finally emerged from the garage. She looked mortified taking in the chaos in her front yard. Mickey and I stopped what we were doing. I avoided eye contact, embarrassed.
“Mickey, help me put her in the van,” Anita said. “We need to leave, and she’s coming with us.”