Free Stuck in Neutral by Terry Trueman Page B

strangers when they got to the bus stop. They joked together for a few moments, swearing a lot, loud and cocky. One of them said some mean-sounding stuff about a girl; the other one laughed.
    â€œHey,” I heard one of them yell in my direction. “You know if the bus has come by or not?”
    His voice sounded nervous, even a little short, as though he felt angry with me.
    When I didn’t answer, the same voice snapped, “Hey! You there, Roller Derby,” He must have meant my wheelchair. “Has the bus come by or not?”
    His friend laughed and said, “I think he’s the short, stupid type.”
    â€œNo duh,” snarled the one who’d spoken first.
    In the brief glance I’d had of them, one looked big and heavy. He wore a black T-shirt, black jeans, and boots. His friend was shorter but muscular and tough, his T-shirt a mesh muscle-type shirt that showed off his body. He stood about Paul’s height, three or four inches shorter than his big friend; they both looked rough: dirty hands, scruffy long hair, a little scary.
    â€œHey, Ricky Retardo? Where’s the bus?” said the other voice.
    â€œYeah,” the first voice laughed, “Retardo Montobon, where’s that streetcar named desire?”
    They both laughed. I’d have laughed too if I could. I thought their references were pretty witty. But then the first one said, “Why don’t we come up there and slap you around till you show a little respect?” He sounded mad, mean.
    â€œYeah,” said the other voice. “If you can give us one good reason why we shouldn’t mess you up a little, we’ll leave your ugly ass alone. Otherwise …” He didn’t finish his sentence.
    His friend laughed again. None of their laughter sounded happy. Although I couldn’t see them, I heard them come in through the gate. My spot on the porch was only ten paces from the sidewalk. They were standing right in front of me before I knew it.
    â€œHello, Ricky,” the first of the voices said. “Seen any buses around here? What on earth are you?” he asked, flipping his finger against my nose. “He looks like some kind of cartoon geek. You’re one messed-up geek there, bud.”
    A moment later I felt a warm sensation under my chin. It turned from warm to hot very quickly. My brain stem started twitching me around. I heard them both laugh.
    â€œDon’t like the hot stuff, hey, Mr. Wizard? Can you say ‘Bic lighter’ …?”
    That was the last word that voice said.
    I managed to catch only a glimpse of Paul as he came at them from around the corner. He moved so fast that he was just a blur. Their bodies seemed to explode when he hit them. I heard a muffled cry from one of the strangers and a huge gasp from the other. For the next minute the world filled with the sound of fists hammering into flesh. Within a matter of seconds I heard only the whimpering of one of the strangers, complete silence from the other.
    My head and eyes shifted, focusing over and beyond them, but even my out-of-focus view saw something horrible. The bigger guy did not move at all, just lay facedown in a puddle of blood. It looked like he’d been shot in the face, not Hollywood or TV “shot in the face,” but really shot. I thought he might be dead. The smaller guy looked even bloodier than his friend did; his left nostril looked torn open. One of his eyebrows looked half torn off too, and his nose looked flattened, his eyes bloodshot. He was terrified.
    The worst sight of all was Paul. He looked like a machine, pounding away at the guy still standing, turning away from him only long enough to kick and stomp the unconscious guy who lay motionless on the ground. I’d never seen such an expression on Paul’s face before: The veins in his neck looked ready to pop; his fists, already dirty from the weeding, were covered with blood. He looked like a monster, barely