Free Ironman by Chris Crutcher Page A

didn’t shut up, but I couldn’t stop myself. Halfway up I turned around and screamed at the top of my lungs, “WHAT ABOUT THE VALUE OF PAIN?”
    Dad’s expression didn’t change. “I’ll teach you the value of pain, too,” he said. “You just doubled it, friend. You’ll earn two hundred dollars.”
    Better break if off here, Lar. That happened more than six years ago, and I’m sweating all over this paper telling it to you now. If I keep it up, I may have to run over to my dad’s house and spray-paint peace signs all over his garage door. Catch up with you later.
    Ever your loyal fan,
The King of Brews

CHAPTER 6
    Ian Wyrack shouts across the parking lot outside Doc’s Drive-Inn, located along Clark Fork’s main drag. “Brewster! I wanna talk with you!”
    â€œTalk to me from there!” Bo yells back. “I can hear you fine!”
    â€œYour shit is in the street!”
    â€œTell me something new!” Bo feels relatively safe. It’s Friday night, the lot is packed, and he’s close enough to his mother’s Blazer that if Wyrack makes a move, he’ll have time to jump in and squash him flatter than a Monsters of the Universe trading card.
    A soft voice in Bo’s ear whispers, “Tell him to eat shit and die.”
    â€œEat shit and die!”
    Heads turn as Wyrack starts across the parking lot.The night is unseasonably warm for late October, and people who would normally huddle around the few tables inside Doc’s are milling around their cars, their sound systems blasting rap and country and heavy metal and old-time rock ’n’ roll with equal, and deafening, passion. Bo reaches for the Blazer’s door handle, but slender fingers firmly grip his wrist. “Run now, and you’ll run forever.”
    â€œI’m an Ironman. I can do that.” He turns, Adam’s apple to nose with Shelly, of anger management and weight-room fame, and his heart leaps.
    â€œYou can do it, but do you want to?”
    Bo says, “What are my choices?”
    She puts her mouth to his ear and whispers, “We can stand right here and kick his ass.”
    Bo pulls back. “We?”
    â€œWe.”
    Wyrack accelerates his pace across the parking lot. The decision must be made quickly.
    â€œOkay,” Bo says in a low voice, turning to face the oncoming rain of blows, “I’ll kneel down behind him, and you push him over.”
    â€œCute.”
    Sensing impending drama, a crowd begins to gather. Bo can almost feel the flat, hot palm of Wyrack’s handagainst the side of his face as Wyrack draws within feet.
    â€œYou want to say that again?” Wyrack sneers.
    Shelly stands in Bo’s peripheral vision, arms folded. Nothing like taking things too far to impress a woman. He glances at her in a fleet final effort to see if it’s worth it. She’s of medium height, with brown eyes and a short blond haircut that falls into place regardless of head movements. She isn’t glamorous, but intriguing, with full lips, a petite, sharp nose, and a long, muscular neck. Her leanness is enormously sensual. So appearancewise, she’s worth it, but what is she doing in Nak’s Pack? Too late to find out now. “Eat shit and die,” Bo says softly to Wyrack.
    With the speed of lightning Wyrack’s hand flicks out for Bo’s face. With the speed of greased lightning Shelly’s right arm blocks it as her foot sweeps his legs, caving them in at the knees. The side of her left hand catches him in the throat before he can hit the pavement, and she immediately stomps her cross-trainer Nikes onto his wrist.
    â€œBitch!” rasps from his throat as if his esophagus were coated with sandpaper.
    â€œA bitch like you wouldn’t believe,” Shelly says, shifting more weight onto his wrist.
    Bo stands astonished and paralyzed.
    â€œGet off my arm, you bitch!” Wyrack yells.