The Antisocial Response

Then they finally came into view.

One of his buddies was with him, riding a low-cal dirtbike behind his ATV, kicking up dust with the indifference of someone who believes that he owns that which he beholds. They stopped, the older one's tagalong, not taking the hint, abruptly braked and squealed past me, managing to avoid an awkward collision. I turned my back on him - he wasn't particularly concerning, and fourwheels obviously had some mischief in mind.

"Hey kid." Fair enough, I probably didn't look that much older than him.

"Yeah."

"You got any gum?" Gum? What? Obviously not the brightest cherry on this branch of Rednecksville, U.S.A.

"No."

"Well me and my buddy here think it might be best for you if you did." At this point he took off his helmet and I got a good look at his face. Not hard to tell that he was new at this - his blotchy cheek was smooth like fresh laundry. At this point I knew his friend was probably getting ready to bean me with a crowbar or something, so I threw him a bone I knew he couldn't resist.

"What, you can't take me by yourself?" His face got even more blotchy.

"Sure 'nuff I can."

"Lets see it."

"Don't be dumb, I ain't no fool." He took a step back. "Y'all got a switchblade or something and I'm not gonna' step up to no ghetto kid with no switchblade."

"So you're scared?" His fists clenched.

"Look, you asking for a fight?" This was it, this was his loophole.

"No man, I don't wanna' fight you." He managed to look relieved and dissatisfied at the same time.

"Good," he said, spitting. "I wouldn't want to fight me neither!"

And then the fun began.

"Bet you couldn't." The total confusion that wiggled its way through his features filled me with malevolent glee.

"Couldn't what?"

"Fight yourself."

"What the hell are you talkin' about? You sure is dumb, t'aint nobody can fight themselves."

"You're just saying that because you can't. You're weak."

"Excuse me?" A cool wind started blowing, and I wished I'd worn a sweater. Oh well, the fires of hell are pretty warm, and it's pretty certain that that's where I'll be headed after today.

"You heard me. You're weak: you can't hack it. Back where I come from a boy's gotta' beat himself before he becomes a man." His eyes widened just a little, but he kept his cool.

"I'm more man 'n you, that's for sure."

"Well then, prove it."

"Alright then I will!" He looked down at his fist, hesitantly, as if unsure of what exactly he was supposed to do. I let him figure it out.

After the third hit he was on the ground, scrabbling with himself, clawing and shaking like a possessed animal. It didn't take quite three leaps and I was seated in the saddle of his still-running ATV, stamping on the gas. I think I might have broken a couple of his ribs when I ran over him, I but I couldn't be sure. By this time his cohort was jumping on his bike, starting it, preparing to give chase.

It wouldn't be hard to track me on these dusty roads, so I did what little I could to shake him before I stopped completely and bailed. Unfortunately for him my prediction was correct: his reflexes failed him and he glided through the air awkwardly, like a stork. Yes, a strange breed of stork that crumples into an unmoving ball where it lands. I considered consoling him; reminding him that the dust would clot the blood quickly, and he might not die; but the wind was picking up, and I didn't wear a sweater.