Free Point of Law by Clinton McKinzie Page B

machine. At first their blows just cause sharp explosions of pain before a sort of numbness overwhelms my body. And the realization that once they’re done beating me, there will be a lot more pain to come. Over their grunting curses and occasional barks of laughter, I can hear Oso roaring as he throws himself against the rope. I kick and punch back as best I can from where I’ve been pummeled onto my back in the grass. But every time I strike out with a leg or a fist, a new blow sneaks in to bang some exposed, vital part.
    Over the whoops and the laughs of the men all around me, there comes an immense thundering sound, as if some gigantic tractor really is tearing its way through the meadow to finish the job of chewing me up. At first I think it’s my consciousness taking flight, lifting off a runway in my brain. But when my world doesn’t fade to black I realize it might be one of the trucks coming to run me over.
    I picture the huge ribbed tires I’d seen churning the grass when the trucks had first pulled into the meadow. A part of me can’t believe that these men would actually intend to kill me—when it began it had seemed like a little fun, a simple mauling, and a lesson not to interfere, was all they were after. I ignore the sharp blows that hammer in every time I open myself up and fight back with every savage ounce of strength I possess.
    Suddenly the men are leaping off me like flies swatted away from a piece of rotting meat. A shower of torn grass and dirt pelts my skin. When I twist my head to figure out which way to roll to avoid the thick rubber treads, all I can see are two spinning tires instead of four, smaller than I expect, and the chrome and glossy black paint of a speeding motorcycle. The bike’s just a few feet from my head. And then it’s gone. The machine races past me, chasing the fleeing, shouting men. The bike’s rider is screaming the Highland war cry Dad taught my brother and me when we were kids.
    I prop myself up unsteadily onto my hands and knees. It’s Roberto on the bike. His black hair streams out from behind low-slung sunglasses. He’s wearing a pair of heavy brown jeans, faded to the color of buckskin, below a black T-shirt. A leather jacket is rolled on the bike behind his back, above the saddlebags. He looks like an avenging Apache ghost.
    I feel a familiar thrill rush through me; it’s the same exhilaration I’d felt in a dozen schoolyard fights when older boys on some new military base sought to teach the new kid a lesson. So many times my brother had magically appeared, apparently out of nowhere, rescuing me, punishing my older tormenters, and finally chasing them off as they bawled like frightened children.
    With confident ease he slams the bike’s rear brake while turning the handlebars, slewing the bike through the grass and turning it one hundred and eighty degrees. Even from across the meadow, I can see the wild grin I know so well on his face.
    Burgermeister runs toward my brother. He moves with surprising agility for a bodybuilder. In his hand he holds a piece of metal—a tire iron or maybe a crowbar he’s lifted from the back of a pickup. I shout a warning at Roberto. The motorcycle gives a throaty roar as he spins the rear wheel in the grass and heads straight toward the threat. Over the engine’s noise, I can hear my brother laughing. The scene looks like something out of a medieval joust, only Rent-a-Riot is horseless. I can’t help but be impressed by the big man’s courage. Or stupidity. He’s about to feel the full force of my brother’s madness.
    Fast and his remaining men gather near the safety of their parked trucks. They’re staring at the action in the center of the meadow. Someone yells at Burgermeister, “Get that crazy fucker!”
    Roberto weaves the bike back and forth as he gooses the throttle. I can see every sinew and muscle in his lean arms where he grips the handlebars. Burgermeister keeps running toward him, bobbing from side to side