“BAD PA! BAD!”
Adam Monday's tiny voice tried to boom with all it's might but all it could do was draw a bashful grin and a pair of crimson cheeks from Pa (aka August Monday). Standing to his feet, August ruffled the small boy's hair gently, yet powerful enough to dip the toddler's head. A month shy of his second birthday, Adam was already taking on his mother's personality and in the short time he'd been August's house mate... Adam had assumed the power in the Monday household.
“Aw shucks, Adam. I jus' forgot is all. I gotta take out the trash anyways,” the Raging Fear told the Raging Toddler.
Hands on hips, Adam watched his Pa leave, trying to not to smile at his ability to render such a powerful man his slave. In one fell swoop, August picked up a tied off garbage bag and headed off down the hall and out of the house. The cigarette remaining tucked between his lips, unlit, for the whole journey. Before the door could even rattle in it's jamb, August had lit that cigarette. He drew deep on the burning tar and chemicals, filling his lungs with the familiar warmth of bronchiole decay. The air was thick and smelt of impending rain drops. August looked to the skies and as if on cue, the clouds opened themselves up and poured their contents down onto the front yard.
“That'd be fucken right. Even the fucken clouds don't want me t'smoke.”
The light drizzle turned into buckets of rain and before August could even make it to the bin, he was saturated to the bone. Cigarette cupped inside his hand, the Raging Fear figured he couldn't get any wetter, so he stood beneath a tree and drew back on his cigarette, eyes on the skies for possible lightning bolts to accompany the drenching. His ginger mane matting to his face as each drop collided, each more intent on trying to soak him through to the bone.
Out of his peripheral vision, August caught a shadow. Immediate reactions told the Portland Powerhouse it was a cat but his common sense rebutted. The shadow was much too large for a feline. It was human. And it moved as if it were trying to remain out of August's eye line, lurking amongst the shadows and bushes. Discerningly, August tried his best to make it look like he hadn't seen the figure, all the while trying his best to go about his business and keeping the shadow inside his sidewards glance. Augie hoped whoever it was couldn't see the hairs on the back of his neck standing to attention, ready for the fight.
He took a long pull on his cigarette, deciding what to do. He couldn't quite see the figure trying it's best to camouflage in the environment, so he couldn't weigh up his options. Does he charge blindly? Are they armed? He hadn't noticed the moonlight glimmering off a piece but then again, those clouds were doing their best to sop up any penetrating beams.
“I know you're thinkin' about rushin' me, Augie, but I wouldn't do that if I was you.”
The voice was cold. Calculating. Like he was inside of August's head and the familiarity made those hairs stand up just a little bit straighter. He knew that voice. He'd heard it hundreds of times and it was the first voice that actually made the Raging Fear quake some in his boots.
Brock Shepherd.
“What're you doin' here, Brock?”
“Can't a feller just go for a walk on his own?”
“You ain't welcome here, boy.” From the mouth of August Monday, boy was the ultimate in insults. And Shepherd knew this. Those words slapped him across the face so hard you could almost see a red welt forming on his cheek. “Git ta steppin', boy.”
“You don't scare me, old man.”
“Take another step 'cross my yard and I'll show ya somethin' really fucken scary.”
Shepherd laughed. It resonated in August's chest, smothering his breath, and he could tell that this man had not an ounce of fear left inside of him. He'd seen his demons face-to-face and there wasn't anything else that could startle him any-more. Least of all a pro-wrestler fast approaching forty years of age.
“That act might work in a wrestling ring. Or in a bar. It don't work on me. I know you, August. I know you inside and out.”
Monday spun to face the demon lurking in his home's shadows. Shepherd's grin was illuminated by a moon beam which had snuck through those looming clouds. The grin shimmered in it's ambience like the devil himself had come to Portland to pay Augie a visit. Monday could feel the chill in his blood.
“August,” Brock snarled, “I know what YOU fear.”
“You dunno shit.”
“Press me, Augie. Try me. Fuck with me and I'll gut your daughter before your very eyes. Fuck with me, August. I dare ya!”
The Raging Fear, standing before the nightmare that plagued his daughter's nights, grimaced and fought the urge to charge Shepherd. He sized him up. Shepherd was two-sixty. Maybe etching on two-seventy. He was giving up forty pounds to August. But the difference was that left arm. Biceps thick as a tree. Knuckles worn and scarred from Shepherd fending for himself solely with that left. Gnarly and hobbled, yet hard as a cement piano falling on a Chihuahua.
“Figured your old age was makin' ya weak as piss these days, Monday.”
“Fuck you.” August spat on the ground, exclaiming his intent.
“Nice.” Shepherd snickered. “Real nice.”
“'The fuck you want?”
Shepherd motioned with a nod of his head toward the house. “I want you to get rid of the Fed.”
“Roberts? Why on earth would I get rid'f somebody who's keepin' my daughter alive.”
“You think that skinny piece of New York's gunna keep me from getting' my hands on her, August, then you've got another thing coming. Lose the Fed.”
Augie shook his head. “Not happenin'.”
“You wanna wake up with your daughter's cold, dead corpse 'longside ya in ya own cot, August?”
“FUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCKKKKKKK YYYYYYYYYYYOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUU!”
The cigarette which dangled from the corner of August's mouth tumbled as he roared, taking his first strides toward the monster that taunted him across his own yard. He dug his toes deep into the sludgy lawn trying to gain momentum. Like some sort of cross-bred bull meets lion, the Raging Fear charged at Brock Shepherd, who seemed like he'd planned for this to happen. Shepherd pawed Monday's extended right hand aside and spun to his left, driving a stinging left hook into the cheek of August Monday. It struck with a dull thud. The wind was knocked from his sails and August began to crash toward the muddy earth, landing face first and sliding to a halt amidst a gauze bush. Momentarily knocked... the fuck... out!
As August began to come to he felt a weight on his chest. Eyes focusing on his surroundings and he was looking into the eyes of a sociopath. Brock Shepherd had straddled his chest, his left arm at the ready to strike. Monday struggled beneath Shepherd's pinning attempts, which only encouraged the former JUST Wrestling Champion to sting a left jab into Monday's kisser. His bottom lip exploded like a cheap pinăta, blood burst from his mouth on impact.
“Fucktard... quit wriggling.” Shepherd strained to keep the advantage.
“I'ma kill you!”
“You'll kill nothing, old man. Listen. Lose... the... fed! Or next time...”
“Next time what?”
“Next time I MAKE... you listen.”
Shepherd slung his right leg off of Monday's chest, rising to his feet, and trudged through the muddy yard onto the side-walk. Stretching his left hand like that punch he'd just delivered echoed in his joints.
August watched, laying on his back, soggy and bloodied, as Shepherd disappeared into the darkness and the rain, out of sight, cursing him in his wake. He touched his hand to his lip, examined the blood, which dissipated as the rain dashed it's presence from the Raging Fear's hand with each drop.
The climax was drawing nearer. August had first hand contact with the monster and he knew it was only a matter of time before he feasted again. And the next time he would feast on the blood of August's own would be on the menu.
For the meantime, Shepherd was content fucking with their heads. The hunter stalking it's prey into doing something stupid.
And August felt like doing something stupid.
“Blood of my own I swear I ain't gunna let nothin' happen to ya.”
August rolled over onto his belly, rising onto his knees as he watched after Shepherd's shadow, somewhere out there in the darkness. Sucking air in through his bloodied teeth, he rummaged through his pocket once more, pulling out his cigarettes. He examined the crumpled and soggy pack, gently prising out a smoke. He bit down on it and lit it, exhaling heavily through his nose like some sort of mythological gargoyle readying himself for the war.
“I fucken swear it.”