"Come on, crabbies. Snip your little claws together. Who wants to dance?" The goons all looked a little confused. I would be too, if I had to wear dumb kevlar vests like theirs. Like the guys in the stairwell. They looked like winter parkas. The Colonel liked his uniforms.
One guy stepped forward, pawing like a cat. Like Bruce Lee or something. At least he was being social. Comparatively speaking. I put my hand out and stuck him in the stomach and he said "guh" and forgot how to breathe. Unusually verbose, too. Neat.
His little crab friends suddenly looked a lot less sure of themselves and stepped back, running down the checklist of Things That Confused Thugs Do, looking at each other, motioning to me like it was someone else's turn, deciding whether or not to put their hands up.
Their displays of cowardice accompanied by their distinctly comical body armor made for a fun watch, but I got sick of watching Bruce Lee cough up his balls and stuck my knee out and put one of his legs off to the side. Bruce yodeled a bit and I pulled my hand back, far, far, out, back, behind my head, bent the arm, that's it, lined it up, and let it drop.
It hit him in that sweet spot right where the jawline meets the neck and it said CHOCK and his tongue went out and Bruce shook his head like he couldn't believe it and he fell over with his eyes closed. Next time he lifted his head would be to ask for more yogurt through a curtain of broken teeth and a water tube down his throat.
"Don't worry. He's not dead. Arghargargargarg."
I was running out of crab jokes but that one did the trick. Crab number 2 ran forward. Hand peeled back like he was gonna throw a fastball. The trick to dealing with someone trying to rush you is to move. Not to the sides, because then they just make a beeline for you. Don't bother stepping back either, because they're coming at you anyway so all you do is throw off your own balance and they hit you half a second slower.
You step into their fist.
So that's what I did.
I took my own arm up and took it into the bobbing testicle of his bulbous Adam's apple so that sad, pseudosexual metacarpal edging was for nought, and he stopped like he had run headfirst into a metal bar. It was like something out of Looney Tunes. His eyes went big and his feet went up and kicked through the air like he was trying to walk to the stars. Then I pushed down and he hit his head and fell asleep. His arm was still cocked back.
The last two crustaceans came in hot and fast and I aimed to turn em into tartare. One was closer. One always is. It's physically impossible for both to be the exact same distance away from me. Or you. So I took him by the hair and stuck a knuckle out and put it into his eye. He threw wild pummeling blows into my kidneys and I resisted the urge to vomit. I pushed in more and the grape popped and he was blind, face slick with blood and pulp, and his friend hit me in the back of the head. I fell backwards, turned it into a roll, and landed in a crouch. Legs bent. Ass kissing the floor. Which allowed me to spring upwards like a cat, and headbutt his friend in the stomach, like a human missile. A flying fish.
He held his solar plexus and wheeeeeeeeezed, trying to push air into his lungs, and I grabbed him by the hair and swung his head into my knee. It said "donk" and he fell over with his fingers in his hair. Moaning. I took out my gun and put it into the small of his back, then angled it so the barrel was almost flat against his vest.
"If I keep pulling this trigger, your vest isn't gonna do anything. Right?"
"Man, just take me to the police station."
"Answer my questions and I will. If not, I'll put a couple through your spine, and your vertebrae will end up in most of your important organs."
"OK! OK! Jesus!"
