Frigid Night of Horror

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A wet Sunday. 11:30pm. Night had eaten supper, that the darkness brought several deafening echoes of aquatic beings, raging the air. Many a home door in the neighborhood had gone shut, for the weather came with frigidity.

I came away from my room and dragged my body to a sofa in the parlor. No sooner had I turned on the television that sat on the table, than a hand banged violently against my front door. Everything went pitch black. Power failure! My heartbeat took a quick halt and the remote in my hand slipped off, crumbling carelessly on the floor.

Then, a gun barked loudly, and a spray of bullets tore through the line of the door, striking a side wall, shattering the television, while some whizzed past my face like a mosquito. I threw myself down, and rolled behind the sofa, heart panting, hands vibrating, and mouth quivering.

“Where is he? Come out you son of a bitch,” came a guttural voice from a man, who was already stepping in, with his gun hand stretched alert to shoot on sight and a direction of any sound.

I knew I had to act fast before the light came whence it had gone. I crawled slowly and quietly behind him. Charged, I leaped forward, crowding him, slapping him with my open left palm full across the face. It rocked him and he took a step back and then steadied himself, blinking his eyes and staring at me.

Maddened with vexation, he advanced forward, and threw a blow, which he planned to follow with a right cross. I slipped to the left, which threw him off enough so that I could step inside the right cross and get a handful of his hair. I pulled his head forward and broke his nose with my head.

He yelped like a fool.

Quickly, he launched a hit that caught my left hand in the V under my ribs where the sternum ends. It paralyzed my diaphragm and I gasped and doubled over and then pitched forward onto the sidewalk.

With the little strength remaining, I leaned over and grabbed his wrist with my left hand and held his gun hand against his chest, the gun caught under his jacket and I hit him twice more with my right, square in the nose.

Still holding his wrist, I got my other right hand into his crotch and put my shoulder into him and lifted him off the ground, slamming him down on the carcass of my television. He grunted, and went limp. When I stood back, he slowly slid off the parlor. When the light came on later, he laid in the street with his mouth open.

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