How Hank Handles Bullies
Hank wiped the blood onto his tattered jeans. His nose may be broken and he kinda hoped it was to give his face character like that actor who always plays bad guys in movies. The last flame of afternoon sun reached into the alley behind the pool hall blinding the guy sprawled out on the ground. Hank kicked him in the ribs again and the big guy cried out. Hank laughed and dug the toe of his Ariat boots into the kid’s side once more.
“Stop, Hank! You’re going to kill him,” said his little brother Joey.
“Yeah, maybe. But a dead fox can’t bother the hen house anymore, can he?”
“I coulda handled it, Hank. You didn’t havta get involved,” said Joey.
Hank smiled at his little brother recalling him bouncing around in one of those blow-up air tents last week for his 10th birthday party. It must’ve been a 10-year-old birthday tradition for his parents as Hank had one for his own 10th birthday party a couple of years ago. “I was just a boy back then,” thought Hank as he touched the scar above his right eye.
“Yeah, you’re probably right, Joey, but this guy’s a big’un. At least 15 years old, maybe older.”
The big’un on the ground groaned. “I’m going to kill you, kid,” big’un sputtered as he spit a bloody tooth from his mouth.
Hank thought about big’un’s swagger when he walked up to Joey and pushed him to the ground a few minutes earlier.
“Yeah, well, you’ll have to catch me.”
Hank lifted a concrete block and brought it down hard on the bully’s knee cap. The crack was like the sound of eating Cap’n Crunch cereal without milk.
Little Joey threw up.