“I just want to talk,” I said, stepping closer. “Man to man.”
“Man to man?” Mark scoffed. He stepped out onto the porch, towering over me. He was thirty years younger, six inches taller, and built like a linebacker. “You’re not a man, John. You’re a relic. You’re a coward who hides in his garden.”
“Maybe,” I said softly. “But at least I don’t beat women to feel strong. Does that make you feel big, Mark? Breaking a girl’s ribs? Or is it because you can’t perform in the bedroom, so you have to perform with your fists?”
The smile vanished from Mark’s face. His eyes went black with rage.
“What did you say to me?”
“I said,” I looked up, meeting his eyes, “you’re a limp, pathetic excuse for a male.”
Mark roared. “I’ll kill you!”
He swung. It was a wild, drunken haymaker aimed at my head.
I didn’t block it. I moved my head just an inch to the right. His fist grazed my cheekbone, splitting the skin. Blood trickled down my face.
Perfect.
“Get off my porch!” Mark screamed, winding up for another hit.
I stepped back. I touched the blood on my cheek. I looked at the security camera mounted above the door—the red light blinking steadily.
“You attacked me,” I said, my voice changing. The tremble was gone. The steel was back. “I am in fear for my life.”
Mark paused, confused by the sudden shift in my tone. “What?”
“I said,” I reached into my coat and gripped the handle of the bat, “Self-defense authorized.”
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Part 3: The Bone-Deep Lesson
Mark lunged again.
This time, I didn’t dodge.
I stepped inside his guard. My movement was a blur, too fast for his alcohol-soaked brain to process. I brought the bat up in a short, sharp arc.
Crack.
The sound of ash wood connecting with a kneecap is distinctive. It’s a dry, sickening pop.
Mark’s scream tore through the night. His leg buckled backward at an unnatural angle, and he collapsed onto the wet stone of the porch.
“My leg! God, my leg!”
He scrambled backward, eyes wide with shock. He looked up at me, and for the first time, he really saw me. He didn’t see the gardener. He saw the predator.
“Stay back!” he shrieked, reaching for the flower pot to throw at me.
I kicked the pot away. Then I stepped on his hand. Hard. I ground my heel into his fingers until I felt something give.
“This is for the fingers you used to bruise her throat,” I said calmly.
“You’re crazy!” Mark wailed. “I’ll sue you! I’ll own you!”
“Focus, Mark,” I said. “We’re not in court yet.”
He tried to stand up on his good leg, swinging a clumsy fist at my midsection.
I parried it with my forearm, spun the bat, and drove the pommel into his solar plexus. The air left his lungs in a whoosh. He crumpled like a wet paper bag.
I stood over him. The rain washed the blood from my cheek.
“You called me a relic,” I said to his gasping form. “You were right. I’m from a time when actions had consequences.”
Mark wheezed, trying to crawl toward the door. “Please… stop…”
“She begged you to stop,” I said. “Did you?”
I swung the bat again. Not a killing blow. A tactical blow. I aimed for the floating ribs on his right side.
Thud-crack.
Mark curled into a ball, vomiting on the expensive slate tiles.
I tossed the bat onto the lawn. It rolled into the wet grass.
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