This time, I didn’t dodge.
I stepped inside his guard. My movement was a blur, too fast for his alcohol-soaked brain to process. I brought the bat up in a short, sharp arc.
Crack.
The sound of ash wood connecting with a kneecap is distinctive. It’s a dry, sickening pop.
Mark’s scream tore through the night. His leg buckled backward at an unnatural angle, and he collapsed onto the wet stone of the porch.
“My leg! God, my leg!”
He scrambled backward, eyes wide with shock. He looked up at me, and for the first time, he really saw me. He didn’t see the gardener. He saw the predator.
“Stay back!” he shrieked, reaching for the flower pot to throw at me.
I kicked the pot away. Then I stepped on his hand. Hard. I ground my heel into his fingers until I felt something give.
“This is for the fingers you used to bruise her throat,” I said calmly.
“You’re crazy!” Mark wailed. “I’ll sue you! I’ll own you!”
“Focus, Mark,” I said. “We’re not in court yet.”
He tried to stand up on his good leg, swinging a clumsy fist at my midsection.
I parried it with my forearm, spun the bat, and drove the pommel into his solar plexus. The air left his lungs in a whoosh. He crumpled like a wet paper bag.
I stood over him. The rain washed the blood from my cheek.
“You called me a relic,” I said to his gasping form. “You were right. I’m from a time when actions had consequences.”
Mark wheezed, trying to crawl toward the door. “Please… stop…”
“She begged you to stop,” I said. “Did you?”
I swung the bat again. Not a killing blow. A tactical blow. I aimed for the floating ribs on his right side.
Thud-crack.
Mark curled into a ball, vomiting on the expensive slate tiles.
I tossed the bat onto the lawn. It rolled into the wet grass.
I knelt down beside him. I grabbed a handful of his expensive hair and pulled his face close to mine.
“Listen to me,” I whispered. “If you ever go near her again. If you ever say her name. If you even look in the direction of my house… I won’t bring a bat next time. I won’t leave bruises. I will make you disappear. Do you understand?”
Mark nodded frantically, sobbing.
I stood up. I pulled out my phone. My hands were steady. My heart rate was resting at 60 beats per minute.
I dialed 911.
“911, what is your emergency?”
“My name is John Vance,” I said clearly. “I’m at 100 Hilltop Drive. I’ve been assaulted by the homeowner. He was drunk and violent. I had to defend myself. Please send an ambulance for him. And police.”
“Is he conscious, sir?”
I looked down at Mark, who was moaning in a puddle of his own making.
“He is,” I said. “Unfortunately.”
Don’t Miss The Rest! Press Next Button Below To Continue Reading.Part 4: The Court of Old Friends
The arrest was standard. They handcuffed me, but they didn’t rough me up. The responding officer saw the blood on my face, the bat on the lawn, and Mark screaming threats. He saw a messy domestic dispute.
But Mark had money. And money changes the narrative.
Three days later, I was sitting in the county courthouse. The charge wasn’t simple assault. It was “Attempted Murder” and “Aggravated Assault with a Deadly Weapon.”
Mark sat at the plaintiff’s table in a wheelchair, his leg in a cast, his ribs taped. He played the part beautifully. He looked pathetic, victimized, and rich.
His lawyer, a slick man in a three-thousand-dollar suit named Mr. Sterling (Mark’s uncle, of course), paced the floor.
“Your Honor,” Sterling boomed. “This man is a monster. He drove to my client’s home in the middle of the night armed with a weapon. He brutally beat a defenseless man. He claims self-defense? Look at him! He’s a trained killer hiding behind a senior citizen discount!”
Mark smirked at me from across the aisle. His eyes said, I win. You rot.
My public defender, a young, nervous kid named Greg, stood up. “Objection. My client is a retired landscaper.”
“Overruled,” the Judge said.
I looked up at the bench.
