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feet, where
he stared at me unsteadily. I think his eyes might have crossed a
little. He staggered once, twice, and then fell backward.
    I looked over at Lena. Her eyes and mouth
were wide open. I couldn’t tell if she was scared or excited. Then
she pointed, and I turned quickly and saw four of Ron’s frat
buddies surrounding me. I’ve been jumped before. Being jumped isn’t
a big deal if you know how to fight, and there are no weapons
involved. As far as I could tell, these guys were packing nothing
but their soft fists. And since the crowd was composed of a lot of
women, the guys would be less inclined to fight dirty. At least,
that has been my experience. Then again, these were the same
scumbags who had just tried to hurt Lena, so all bets were off.
    The group backed up a little. And once
again, I marveled at my propensity to get into fights. Some guys
attract money and girls. I attract fists.
    The guys were staring at each other, trying
to decide what to do. They were waiting for a signal. Out of the
corner of my eye, I saw one of them nod, and I thought: Here they
come.
    And they did, all four charging me at once.
Except, of course, they charged at me in slow motion, my brain once
again slowing things down like it always did. The first two guys
tried to throw punches in the direction of my head. I easily ducked
and sidestepped and gave a sharp left cross to the guy on the
right—and broke his nose on contact. Blood spurted down his face
and over his shirt, and he screamed and fell away. One down. Three
to go.
    Nearly simultaneously, I gave the second
guy, coming up behind me, a back kick that hit nothing but manhood.
He fell to the ground, holding his gooseberries. Two down. Two to
go.
    The next guy jumped on my back. I threw him
over my shoulder, and he landed on the guy with the bloody nose.
Three down. One to go.
    The last guy just charged me like a football
player. I took a step back and gave him a high kick to the chin
that made him stagger back. He came at me again and I gave him a
four-punch combination, with my last hit breaking his nose. All
were down.
    My adrenaline was pumping, and I felt as if
I could do this all night. By the looks of it, these four couldn’t.
They were done. Unfortunately, the Gamma Phi Betas brothers
weren’t. The whole fraternity—or at least what was left of them—
surrounded me. There must have been twenty-five guys out there. I
was good, but I wasn’t that good.
    I was about to say something that would call
attention to how unfair the numbers were, when something
excruciatingly painful exploded in the middle of my back. I fell to
my knees and then to the ground. I turned around, and sure enough,
Big Red Ron was standing there holding a baseball bat, sporting a
shit-eating grin. He raised the bat again.
    I hate when that happens.
     
     
     

Chapter Three
     
     
    Ron looked like a kid ready to hit the crap
out of a piñata. He was the deranged kid and I was the piñata.
Already, I figured he had done some serious damage to me. He had
either chipped my vertebrae, or ruptured my kidney, or both.
    As he wheeled back to take another swing,
and as I was about to dive under the nearby SUV, we both heard a
commotion coming from down the street. He stopped in mid-swing, and
I stopped in mid-dive, and promptly coughed up some blood.
    And while I coughed, a van appeared around
the corner, screeching on two tires. Three guys in black trench
coats hung out of the open van doors, whooping and hollering at the
top of their lungs. I had just propped myself up on a knee when the
van burst over the curb. It bounced and skidded to a halt, tearing
up the lawn next to me.
    You have got to be kidding me. What the hell
did I just get myself into?
    All of the doors to the van seemingly opened
at once, and three guys poured out of the van, all wearing trench
coats and looking as if they had just gotten back from a Marilyn
Manson concert. Oddly, they looked alike: tall, pale, and with
long, greasy