Electricland

     At that moment a shiny black Toyota sped by with a weathered brown van in hot pursuit. The van was blasting its horn and a man was yelling out its passenger window for the smaller coupe to pull over. The two vehicles then turned the corner and disappeared, followed by the sound of screeching tires and a crash. There were some guttural threats, a scuffling sound and then the shrieking of a woman. Mickey looked at Shane, his face stretched into an expression of disbelief. He yelled, “Let’s go!” and made a move toward the cacophony. Several of the group began running down the block, but Shane said, “Guys! Wait!” and waved them back toward his car. There, he opened his trunk and began distributing all sorts of hand held weaponry: bats, clubs, tire irons. He handed Mickey a Louisville Slugger and said, “Go! I’ll be right there!” Mickey gave him a quizzical look, but there was no time for questions. He took off, running as fast as he could to catch up with the others. Once assured he was alone, Shane reached deep into the trunk, lifted up the spare tire and pulled out something else.
     The ruckus continued to ring out as Mickey approached the corner. As he turned it, he finally saw what was happening. The Corolla was halfway up the curb, its hood covered in trash, with several garbage cans strewn about the sidewalk. The van was angled in front of the smaller car, clearly having cut it off and forcing it up onto the curb. The back doors of the van were wide open and it had no license plate. Skid marks from both vehicles stretched out behind them for several yards. A skinny man with bleached, spiked hair was attempting to drag a girl toward the back of the van. He had one arm around her waist and the other hand over her mouth. She kept biting down on his hand, causing him to howl in pain, and each time he pulled his hand away, she either cried out for help or cursed at her assailant.
     Further down the sidewalk near a tall hedgerow, two young men were grappling fiercely. One of them, wearing a charcoal pull-over fleece, was frantically yelling toward the girl. “Gretta!” he yelled, “Leave her alone, you fuck!” but his words went ignored.
     Another man, the size and shape of a body builder, stood facing the approaching boys with a massive set of arms folded across his chest. He had a purple Mohawk, a big, hooked nose with a ring in it, and studs running up and down his ears. He was wearing a turquoise blue tank top, and his arms were covered in tattoos. He grinned malevolently as Matthew Mullin launched himself at him. The giant simply caught him in midair, effortlessly lifted him up over his shoulders and threw him down squarely on the top of his head. The boy convulsed briefly, then lay listless on the ground.
     Gretta squeaked in shock behind the hand that was covering her mouth, her face streaked with tears. The spiky-haired man holding onto her, stared in unbridled admiration. “Bloody hell, Bolt!” he said in an astonished Cockney, “Smashing!”
     Bolt just kept on grinning, his face seeming to grow in size. “Come on!” he said to the rest of Mickey’s gang, “Who’s next?” He brought down his arms in a pectoral flex and let out a penetrating howl that seemed to reverberate all around.
     Mickey licked the inside of his lips. They were still numb from the cocaine. He wiped the sweat off his brow and found himself almost involuntarily in motion. The combination of the coke and the adrenaline he was now feeling seemed to propel his body forward. Whether or not he had control of his body, one thing was clear: There was no way he was going to let these punks take this girl. He took a step toward the body builder and raised the bat.
     Bolt held out his hands and beckoned Mickey toward him with a taunting, waggling of his fingers. His grin grew even wider now, and his head seemed to swell like an inflating carnival balloon.
     Mickey blinked hard and violently shook his head to clear his senses.
     “Let her go,” he said in an even voice. “I don’t know who the fuck you are, but this is our town. Take your bullshit and get the fuck outta here… NOW!”
     Bolt slapped his thigh and pointed at Mickey as he let out another high pitched cackle. His face was turning amorphous now, with different parts of it swelling and contracting in all kinds of directions. “Okay, tough guy,” he chuckled, “You wanna play ball? I’m gonna shove that bat so far up your ass it’ll be coming out of your mouth.” He then made a move toward Mickey.
     Mickey readied to swing the bat when a sudden loud CRACK! pierced the air. Startled, they all turned toward the sound and saw Shane pointing a smoking handgun up toward the sky. Everyone went silent.