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Mr. Dink.
Mr. Dink had bitch tits.
Huge monstrous breasts, hanging from his chest like gelatin filled balloons. Swaying rhythmically as he waddled towards me. Those awkward little steps. His glasses drooping down his purple gherkin nose, eyes straining to hold back tears.
I’m motionless as he hugs me. Arms draped with middle age flab. “How you doin’, Douglas?” He sobbed.
“I’m fine, Mr. Dink.” I said. I put my arms around him, but the whole time I’m thinking about last night when Pork-chop landed a kick square across my jaw. I’m thinking about the ice water jolt of pain in my skull. The Novocain feeling still running through it as it heals. “I’m better than fine, Mr. Dink.” I add.
He unwraps his arms from around me, stepping back and motioning to his indescribably large rack. “It was an invention, Douglas,” he spat through a leaking veil of tears, “An experimental helicopter lawnmower. It blew up, some of the radioactive fuel splashed on my chest...” his eyes jerked about in teary convulsions.
Mr. Dink charged me again, burying his flabby purple head in my shoulder. His tears soak into my shirt like blood from last night’s fight. I think about Pork-chop, and his hard kick. The rest comes naturally.
“But I’m still a man, Douglas...”
“Mr. Dink?”
He sniffs, raising his face out of my shoulder. “Yes?”
“There’s a club meeting at my house tonight. I think you’d like it.”
The next time I see Mr. Dink, he’s charging at me drenched in sweat and mainlining adrenaline. He’s slow. I land a good chop along his nose. Blood rolls down purple skin, reminding me of his tears that afternoon. As he grabs my hair, ramming my head into the concrete wall again and again, I look him in the eyes. I see the same thing I saw in myself that first night with Pork-chop. My head hits the concrete again, making a sound like raw meat. Through blood soaked eyes I see Pork-chop smiling at the edge of the basement.
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