Monday, August 08, 2005

Face To Face

“Two more tequilas, Bitch. And undo that top button. I want more cleavage.”
The Jock was being an asshole to impress his mates, who crowded around him as if he was handing out free money, though it wouldn’t have surprised any of us if he were. Testosterone poured from their corner, wild animals braying, and they sucked back the shots, no awareness for their environment.
Mike, a friend, decides to go get more drinks. The Jock had all of the waitresses cornered and we were getting no service.
“Boy, what an asshole” I begin as Mike gets the drinks, “Someone should teach that Jock a lesson. One he would never forget.”
We fume silently, waiting for the beers, cognisant of the fact that nothing would be done, as nothing was ever done about this. But the Jock, instead of respecting the invisible social boundary between him and us, interfered with our beer transport. Mike was tripped by the lumbering oaf, who guffawed from his mouth and snorted through his nose. Our friend lay on the ground, his glasses on the dance floor, under stomping feet, shattering. I watched horrified. Now that the Jock has become physically aware of us, we weren’t safe. Our kind will be kindling in his hate bonfire.
It was then, something happened inside. Some chemical reaction, some biological anomaly, flicked an over-ride switch in my central nervous system. No longer did my mouth hang loose on my face, but it was clenched. My teeth grinding. My hair came alive, brushing itself aside, out of my eyes, so that I could see all around me, every tiny detail observed. My hands forbade themselves the leisurely task of hanging listlessly off the wrist and instead tightened into a fist, knuckles white.
I stand, removing my loose affectations, biros, I.D. bracelet, inhaler necklace, and I charge to the bar. A move so direct and purposeful as to make one of my friends gasp, unfamiliar with this altered me.
“Give me a damn beer.”
The waitress, impressed, nodded and smirked,
“Yes, sir.” She spun the ‘sir’ in her mouth flirtatiously.
And while she poured the beer, I locked eyes with the Jock, his own facial features akin to a gorilla who had just discovered masturbation. A leering smile, a brow that caste a shadow over his dull eyes. Flat cheekbones, beaten by the noble art of football.
The waitress slid the beer across the bar top, people lifting their drinks from out of it’s path. I pick it up as it still moves, and use the charged momentum to knock it back in seconds. Huge, long seconds, I use to evaluate my options, to plan my attack.
The glass on the bar, I walk to the Jock. The difference in height and build between us has never been so apparent as it is now. Him a full two heads taller than me and possibly twice as wide.
He tilts he heads down to see me, his chin scratching his chest.
“Hey, you stoopid bastard. What are you looking at?”
I float my head around on my neck.
“Are you talking to me?” I ask, gawping around with a smile, adorning a look that says to his friends: ‘Hey, I’m just playing with him.’
“Yea, I’m talking to you. And I asked what are you looking at? Dick.”
“A dead man” I reply with a cold killer look in my sharp eyes and POW, I swing my fist.
The following takes just a millisecond between conception and conclusion, but its impact would be felt for decades.
As my fist travels, the natural friction in the air coupled with the speed it is travelling at causes it to heat like a furnace. The bone of my arm roasts, cooking the muscle and fat, my skin turning into a shell, shiny and plastic like. And when it connects with the Jocks face, it’s on fire, a fire brighter than the sun, brighter than the Hiroshima bomb. So bright that it leaves a shadow. The Jocks face immediately turns to carbon, black and soft, as if someone had built a copy of his face out of coal. My hand comes to rest down by my side and I blow, like I was blowing out candles on a birthday cake. His face evaporates, dissipates to nothing, leaving just a body in a wrinkled yellow jersey. Wrinkled from being worn too much.
His friends, they all look at their buddy and back at me.
“What…” starts one, “Who are you?” finishes another.
“My name is William. William Meehan. And don’t you forget that.”
When I get back to my seat, Mike had corrected himself, his glasses intact and a new round had been delivered free of charge.


  1. Very untrue... what the hell?
    Do you think my brother or anyone could evaporate someone's head with a punch.

    That'd be cool, but... no.

  2. Well, not entirely true, at least. Maybe just wishful thinking.
    Indeed, that'd be cool.

  3. I could evaporate someones head with a punch. I practiced on cat. I dont have a cat anymore.

  4. Yeah, I read, in the Limerick Leader, about a plague of cat head evaporations. I thought it was more of the LL bullshit, but NAY. NAY. It were Ian. To my eternal respect.