It was a Bit of a Donnybrook (Part IV)
Wayne’s eyes widened and snapped shut a millisecond before the man’s right fist connected flush on his jaw. His head snapped violently, and the farmer’s entire body twisted around from the momentum of the attack. Spit shot out of his mouth at a hundred miles per hour, staining the dusty ground. There was an audible gasp from the small crowd, as Wayne had dropped to one knee, his back facing his opponent. Had their champion been so easily defeated, by a single punch?
The man cackled, his giant hands clamped down on to Wayne’s shoulders like vice grips. With every movement, the man in the strange clothes seemed to try to inflict pain. His fingers dug into the meaty portion of Wayne’s upper back. Just as he was about to lift his victim overhead, Wayne’s right arm shot up in a flash, swinging wildly into the man’s left then right forearm. With a grunt of pain, the foreigner lost his grasp upon the farmer and tumbled backwards. Wayne rose to his feet, staring from squinted eyes as he relaxed back into his fighting stance, hands held out before him like an old time boxer.
The foreigner snorted and looked doing at the large purple bruise that had formed on his forearms. His eyes widened. Had doubt snuck into his head? Before he could consider the thought, he roared gutturally and charged forwards again, his right hand cocked back to deliver the same blow he had the first time. Wayne, however, was ready for him this time.
With a deft movement of his head, Wayne slipped the punch to the right, watching out of the corner of his eye as the arm flew harmlessly over his left shoulder. Capitalizing immediately, Wayne fired an uppercut from his right hand into the man’s side, several inches below his ribs. He could have sworn he heard the air forcibly expelled from the man’s lungs as his hand sunk three inches in. The foreigner doubled over gasping for air with spittle running from his mouth. His arms clutched his stomach and before he could compose himself, Wayne rose his right arm high above his body.
The moment seemed to slow down, as the foreigner’s head turned to look upwards. The sun burned above, its brightness almost blinding. The foreigner squinted, the yellow rays of the distant star obscuring his vision, until a massive shadowed object (Wayne’s fist) crashed into his jawline with tremendous force. The cracking sound from the blow was akin to a gunshot. The crowd gasped again, this time louder.
The foreigner’s entire body rolled with the turning of his head, leaving him flat on his back staring upwards into the sky. His arms felt rubbery and heavy. Wayne’s blow had left him on queer street. His vision was blurred. He felt a strong tug on his shirt, and felt his torso lifted slowly forwards. The figure of this tinier, though well-muscled farmer in dirt stained clothes eclipsed the sun in the background. “Dust him good Wanye!” Nathan had cried out from the crowd. Wilson stood, his hand shoved into the pockets of his overalls, nodding at the turn of events.
Wayne leaned in close to the man, looking into his eyes. He could tell this man was not completely aware of his surroundings and obviously had a chin weaker than a rice cake. Wayne cocked his right hand back again, but before delivering the blow, he spoke. “Welcome to Stows.” His right hand cracked into the man’s jaw once more, putting the man to bed immediately. The small crowd gave a raucous cheer and Wayne stared at the four men who had accompanied the brute earlier. Wayne scowled, then turned and walked off the beaten earth. Several residents of the town patted him on the back as he strode back towards the truck. Nathan and Wilson had been celebrating, their arms raised in the air. The other four men were dragging their comrade off of the arena. Those big shot city boys probably wouldn’t be back anytime soon.
The crowd slowly started to disperse as Wayne and his friends neared the truck. Just as Wayne reached for the handle of the passenger door, he heard a familiar yell. The foreigner was back on his feet, crouched with his hands pulled back as if he was holding on to a tiny, invisible globe. A puzzled looked came across Wayne’s face as the brute screamed at him again. “TAKE THIS YOU HICK TRASH!” A crackling ball of yellow energy appeared between the brute’s hands and he flung it towards the trio.
Acting fast, Wayne’s massive arms wrapped around Nathan and Wilson as he flung them and himself to the ground. The yellow ball of ki contacted the truck and the vehicle exploded upwards twenty feet into the air, raining bits of hot metal and debris across the fairground. Wayne was the first to roll over, and stared at the charred earth that had once been his truck. “What in the Sam Hill was that?!” Exclaimed Nathan as he looked across the way at the brute’s smoking hands and then at the burnt patch of ground. Wilson still had his face buried in the ground, he wasn’t one for explosions.
Wayne jumped up to his feet, staring at the brute and his four companions. That truck was given him to by his father. There was a bit of sentimental value to it for Wayne. The anger was plain on his face now. He gritted his teeth, clenched his fists, and sprinted towards the group of city slickers. The brute, bleeding from the corners of his mouth, looked ready for another assault. His confidence was bolstered with the four of his companions backing him up. They were all clothed in black jumpsuits with strangely designed boots and jackets that featured an embroidered “CC” on them. They smirked, for what could one angry redneck do to a group of five them?
A lot. They’d figure this out soon enough.
One of the four grunts stepped in front of the group and throw a high head kick towards the onrushing Wayne. He ducked under it, and both of Wayne’s hands clutched around the man’s other foot that was planted on the ground. Without losing a step, Wayne flung the man by the leg like a ragdoll into the group. The body collided with two of the other thugs, leaving only one and the brute still left standing. Before the brute or his remaining companion could make a move, Wayne leaped in front of both them. Taking a quick step to face in front of the brute’s thug, his arms lashed out and worked like pistons and several punches found their mark in the man’s soft stomach. Before the poor sod could completely bend over, a high kick to his temple sent him flying into the pile of his friends, two of which were slammed back down to the ground just as they were standing up from the earlier assault. With his minions incapacitated, a look of fear manifested on the brute’s face.
“Never did get your name fella.” Wayne said. He stood relaxed in front of his opponent, thumbs looped into his belt. He hadn’t even broken a sweat disposing of the other four. The brute mumbled incoherently under his breath before finding the courage to reply. “It’s Lang-“
“Oh yeah, I forgot. I don’t give a care.” Wayne interrupted. His left hand clutched a mass of cloth from the man’s jacket right underneath his collarbone. His right fist slammed forward half a dozen times. The man couldn’t back away because Wayne kept a firm grip on his jacket. Each time his body was bumped backwards from a punch, Wayne pulled him towards himself before firing off another.
The exchange seemed to last longer than it did, but in reality is was only a few moments. The man’s face was swollen and bloody. His nose was clearly broken, and both of his eyes were swelled shut. During the carnage, he had attempted to reach out and grab Wayne’s shirt. Wayne had grabbed his wrist and forcibly snapped it back, breaking it too. Now a crumpled mess, the man only know as ‘Lang-something’, lay in a bloody pool in the middle of the fairgrounds. He was bloodied and broken but still alive. He hacked and coughed up some blood. Wayne had quite literally beaten him within in an inch of his life.
“Don’t ever let me see you in this town again. This is my only warning, and I don’t give it twice.” The man hacked again, gurgling more of his own blood before gently nodding his head in agreement. Wayne turned again, this the final time, and stomped off the fairground into Stows. Nathan and Wilson lined up right behind him.
Without a ride, they hit the sidewalk, and after walking two blocks they entered the local bar. It was a dive, to be frank, but it had its charm for being a little rundown single story shanty. The bartender nodded as the trio entered. They were regulars and without even placing an order, three shot glasses were already placed on the bar, filled with whiskey. They sat down, looked at each once, and tapped the bar with their shots before downing them respectively. It was all done in silence, and several more times.
A couple hours elapsed and Wayne’s sister Michelle pulled up outside in the parking lot. She walked into the bar, pushing her way through the crowd and second hand smoke of multiple cigarettes. It was in the evening by now and the place had filled up with locals. She soon found her brother along with Nathan and Wilson sitting in the same spots they always had, right at the end of the bar.
Wayne, Nathan, and Wilson were all a bit tipsy at this point. Tipsy enough that even the usually stone faced Wayne had cracked a smile or two. Wilson was the first to notice her presence and turned himself to speak to her. “Did ya hear there Michelle? Ol’ Wayne’s back on the horse.” He smiled wide, almost proud. “Shoulda seen what he did that big city boy, what a beating!” Nathan exclaimed. Wayne simply remained silent, though you could see a faint crack of a smile.
Michelle, however, did not reciprocate the laughter and good feelings of the pair. “What the hell happened out their Wayne? There was an ambulance and news people saying a riot broke out at the fairgrounds or something along those lines. There’s five guys in the hospital!” Her gaze was trained on her brother, who simply looked ahead across the bar for a moment.
“Well I can say that there wasn’t much a riot, given what we all saw out there Michelle.” Wilson explained. Nathan shifted on his barstool to face her, he took a drag on smoke, blowing it out of the corner of his mouth out of courtesy. “Yeah, news must’ve exaggerated that. Wayne just beat the tar out of some guy is all. Twice mind you. See what happened was-…” Before Nathan could finish Wilson interrupted. “Long story short, some guy did some magic and done blew up Wayne’s truck, which as you know, was your dads. So, fueled by the immense and furious anger of losing a prized family heirloom, Wayne basically beat the stuffin’ out of this poor brute from what can we only assume is West City along with his four lackeys who all dressed the same, and quite oddly mind ya. I guess I’m probably missing a few-..”
Nathan proceeded to interrupt Wilson. “That’s a long story short? Shoot. Your brother’s back to fighting Michelle, and the truck thing did happen so I guess were in the market for another one back on the farm.” Michelle looked absolutely floored. It took her a few minutes to gather herself before looking to her brother. “Wayne, can you explain any of this? I don’t want to hear this second-hand nonsense from your two dumb friends.”
Wayne then turned to face his sister. A cigarette hung out of the corner of his mouth and a bottle of whiskey (not the first one mind you) was clutched in his right hand. “Wanye, are you deaf? What happened at the fairgrounds today?” He canted his head to the left, and calmly stated, “Oh, it was a bit of a donnybrook, yanno?”
END