C4 antho - Chamber Four

Bad Cheetah ~149~
suddenly for a customer pulling up, a freak hailstorm, anyfuckingthing.
“You little motherfucker,” Cheetah growls. He stands
and advances, and I wonder what Gordon will do now―he’s a
foot shorter and stick-thin, but smart, smart enough to have
a handful of sand. He does the sand-in-the-eye trick and
Cheetah yells and brings his hands to his face, staggering
back. Gordon pounces, using the bigger man’s momentum to
take him down.
It’s a dreadful sight: Gordon perched on Cheetah’s back
flailing his scrawny arms. “Bad Cheetah,” he yells with each
punch. “Bad Cheetah.” Cheetah, meanwhile, is wiping the
final bits of sand from his eyes; he’ll be in control momentarily
and God knows what he’ll do. A series of thoughts roll
through my head. Did Sarah get through to the cops? Where
the hell are they? The old sand-in-the-eye trick really works,
no shit. Cheetah has a buck knife on his belt―I hope he
doesn’t pull it; we’re only fifteen, for Christ sake. Does he really
like it in the ass?
So here’s my best friend defending my mother’s honor
and what am I doing but standing around thinking my idle
thoughts, avoiding what should be my confrontation, and
Cheetah begins to rise with Gordon attached to his neck like
a ninety-pound leech. With one arm he reaches back and
flips my boy to the ground. Gordon lands hard on his back
and immediately clutches at his chest, gasping for air.
Cheetah leans over and spits on him.
I haven’t moved. The entire time, I haven’t moved a goddamn
muscle. Cheetah sees the look on my face and sneers.
“Piss your pants, did you?” He moves my way, motioning
down at Gordon. “At least he got in the game.”
“Yeah? At least I don’t suck cock, porn-man.” I don’t
know where this comes from. I feel sick in the chest after I