Just Another Sunday

The roundhouse right cross came out of nowhere, knocking him off his feet. He slid to the pavement and reached up to touch his cheek. He could taste the blood in his mouth. Suddenly, he was on his feet again, not by his own power, put pulled there by the lapels of his jacket.

              “Come on, give me a break. I told you I’d have the money for you…” another right cross sailed into his chin. He staggered back, but maintained his footing this time. He rubbed his cheek. It was bruised and sore. But that was the least of his trouble.

              “All right, all right!” he shouted backing away from his assailant. He reached inside his pocket, as though he were going for his wallet. As if he really had a couple of hundred thousand bucks on him.

              “I don’t have all of it now, but if you could just let me have a couple more weeks…” Another blow to the mid section caused him to double over. Then, he was grabbed by his hair and his head was yanked back.

              “I don’t want to hear your excuses. You know what we want. You can either get it done, or you can go on the disabled list. Permanently.”  The assailant looked down on the ground and found exactly what he was looking for. A weapon. A long piece of metal pipe was lying next to a dumpster at the end of the alley. For a moment, both men’s eyes locked on the pipe. Each knew what the other was thinking. There wasn’t any more time. He couldn’t stall any longer.

              “All right. You win. Tell your associate to place his bet on Sunday’s game. I’ll do it your way. But this is the one and only time. Never again! This one time and we’re square. You got that?” he said, his voice full of passion and rage and fear. His assailant flashed a sinister smile.