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Show Carlson Ferguson Lives 6 and there is alot of good stuff with which to hit the other guy. They are mainly crawling over each other slugging, but I can see, from time to time, a flower pot swung in the half light, the muffled crash. Other things rise and catch light: part of a clarinet, a dictionary, an old iron. There are going to be more stitches it would seem. Finally, Butch pushes hard and disentangles himself from Fenn's slug-wrestle. Neither is crying. I know that Fenn cannot see Butch in the dark cellar, and so I say: "Don't hit me, Fenn. I'm over here." Butch is holding still against the fruit shelves, trying to still and cover his wheezing breath. He is holding a set of bicycle handlebars in his hand, and with two steps he could clock Fenn into space. "Don't do it, Butch," I say. "Let it go. Let's do something else. Something interesting. Besides," I lie,"I think I heard your father come home." That stuns him and he crouches listening to the ceiling. For my sake there are a few creaks, his brother up there beating up his sister probably, and the mood is broken and Butch sets the handlebars on the floor. I grab Fenn, who jumps when I touch him, but he sits back down and I hand him his comic. He throws it on the floor. "Shit!" he says. "Things are getting stranger around here." "Say you're sorry," I tell Butch. He comes over, trying to place his shirt back together. There are no more buttons. "Say it." |