The Kick Boxer’s Lament
J. Arthur Goodwin
It wasn’t easy. No, it was never easy for Rudolph Sledge to kill ‘em when they were down for the count. The floor was dirty like a napkin that was used to clean a frying pan. He crept closer to his enemy in a stance that demonstrated dominance and a deep knowledge of kung fu. His enemy was a German who looked like a vanilla wafer. His crime? Selling illegal rifles to pissed off Koreans.
Rudolph didn’t know where to kick the German. If he gave him the kick of death to the ribs then his head would explode. He didn’t want to do that. He didn’t want to get blood on his new shirt. It had a monster truck driving over a pyramid printed on the chest.
Rudolph was now standing over the German with a difficult choice to make: let him go, or kill him right then and there in the basement of a beauty parlor. “Get it over with.” moaned the slimy little prick on the floor. His skin was dark like a candy bar that had been left on a picnic table melting in the Spanish sun. “How the hell did I get mixed up in this shit?” thought Rudolph.
Then, out of nowhere his ruthless enemy pulled a gun out of his pocket and pointed it at Rudolph. “The game plan has changed asshole!” screamed the unflappable German. Rudolph was stuck like a filament in a glass bulb. This was it. He would never go to the Rocky Mountains with his daughter, Tess. That was his dream. His only dream.
“Any last words, Sledge?” asked the German. “Yes. Yes… I want you to tell my daughter that I love her, that I tried my best to be a good father. I just wish I could have brought her to the Rocky Mountains. That’s all I ever wanted.”
The German cocked the gun. Have you ever heard the sound of the evening train, gliding over the steel rails charging on to the unknown? That’s what it sounded like to Rudolph Sledge. And then he had an idea. “Before you paint the fuckin’ walls red with this old dog’s blood could you get me that can of root beer on that table behind you?”
“Sure. No problem.” replied the German. With his back turned, Rudolph kicked the dickhead square in the temple. The world had been fuckin’ rocked by that kick, esé. The German fell to the ground, clutching the ice-cold root beer. Rudolph Sledge tore the root beer out of his dead hand and let that cold shit run down his throat, nice and easy.
The owner of the beauty parlor came running down the stairs, out of breath and with a shit load of questions. She had rollers in her hair and was holding a broom. “What was that terrible noise!? What happened!?” she screamed.
“Go back upstairs, sweetheart.” Rudolph Sledge replied, tossing the empty can of root beer to the floor. “I was just on my way. I gotta go take my daughter to the Rocky Mountains.”
The End
Goodwin ’78
