Fight Scene
Every once in a while I think of something that I should post something to the blog, but by the time I get home, walk the dogs, make dinner, pound out my (hopefully) 1000 words, I forgot what I was going to post about.
I think I’ll do a year round up before the end of 2009, though, because it’s been a pretty busy year with lots of ups and downs.
But in the meantime, I’ll appease those who are snippet-hungry (I’m looking at you, S.) by posting a little bit of the fight scene I’m struggling through…
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I had a plan. It involved a bit of keep-away mixed with come-and-get-me. Just had to run around like the dumb chick in the slasher flicks, the one guaranteed-dead in the first five minutes because her IQ was less than her bra size. Maybe throw in a bit of flopping around, like a snared fish floundering on shore. I guess I could scream for help, too. Whimper some. Cry a little.
Shit, I couldn’t act. Was never the decoy. Was always the eye behind the scope, the finger on the gun. Didn’t seem to matter that I hadn’t made a peep yet. The Riders were coming anyway.
I went for the first door. Locked.
Second door. Locked.
Third door had a mag lock. The red light was on.
I crossed the alley, searching for another way out.
Got a clue. Doubled back. Mag lock. I could fry it.
The Riders were smarter than I thought. Figured it out soon as I did. One of them swept an arm up and did a push hand. Shoved me from the door without laying a finger on me.
I skidded about twenty feet. Tripped and stumbled against a dumpster. The Riders sashayed in, slunk in, did a little hip-hop banger walk, like a 1950s gang of leathernecks. All that was missing were the rhythmic finger-snaps and the musical track.
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