Who’d have thought a scrawny pimply-faced guy could have sent a Mack-truck-sized man into the pavement with such caliber and zeal? The impact had surely loosened a few teeth. Blood oozed from the prone truck’s nose and lips like a Rocky mountain stream during spring thaw.
Pimple Guy shook his head, cursed three times, hawked loudly and graced Truck Man’s soiled bargain-store running shoe with a large gob of phlegm before sauntering into an early evening that veiled the local world with a blackberry-plum shroud. Truck Man’s friends appeared embarrassed and unsure as to whether they should assist their fallen comrade or maintain a semblance of dignity and walk away. Heat took its toll on some tempers, but then, so did a late afternoon of lagers and rum chasers under a baking sun.
“Clean up
