Percy

If a man raises his hand to a woman, he’s earned an ass whipping. But for a man to raise his hand to one of his children, especially his daughter, he’s earned far more than a simple ass whipping.

I told myself as I walked across the yard that killing him wasn’t the answer, but despite my mind’s thoughts, my soul struggled to accept anything short of burying him in the backyard.

I stepped on the porch, checked over each of my shoulders, and then knocked on the door.

The door opened.

“Something I can do for--”

I swung a straight right hand as hard as I’d ever thrown one. The punch caught him off guard – and directly in center of his face.

His nose splattered beneath my knuckles, undoubtedly broken by a punch he had no idea was coming.

I had no intention of beating him and walking away.

None whatsoever.

My plan was to beat him, educate him on matters of moral behavior, and then beat him a little more.

As he stumbled to catch his footing, I stepped into the house and pulled the door closed behind me.

He lowered his hands.

Blood dripped past his lips and down his chin. For an instant, he appeared to be confused. Then his fight or flight instinct kicked in.

He raised his hands and took a step toward me. It appeared he was choosing fight over flight.

It wasn’t a wise decision on his part. I inhaled a quick breath, leaned back, and then drove the top of my head into his face with every ounce of energy I could gather.

What little of his nose had survived the first punch had no chance of making it through the impact of my hard head.

His hands shot to his face, and he stumbled against the wall.

Two successive blows to the nose had rendered him senseless. Regardless, I was far from finished. He’d done the unthinkable to one of the few women on earth I cared about, and I wasn’t going to go easy on him.

Not at all.

I raised my right foot, planted it against his chest, and kicked him to the floor. He tried to stand, but in his semi-conscious state, his brain and his legs were having a difficult time communicating.

I reached into my back pocket, removed the roll of electrical tape I’d taken from my garage, and before he could provide much resistance, pulled his hands behind his back and taped his wrists together. Now hillbilly handcuffed and sitting on the floor, he looked up at me with confused eyes.

He blinked a few times. “You’re the neighbor, right?”

“Yep. That’s me. Name’s Welsh. Percy L. Welsh. When we’re done, you can call the cops if you’d like. That is, if I don’t kill you.”

I looked around the living room. A chair in the corner of the room was only a few away. I leaned against the arm of it and looked at him.

I raised my right foot off the floor a few inches. “If you try to get up, I’m going to plant the toe of this size 12 Doc Marten on your face. Get comfortable.”

His eyes darted left, and then right.

Then, he tried to stand.

I slid off the edge of the chair, raised my right foot, and kicked him in the face as hard as I could.

Although I’d promised to give him the toe of my boot, his squirming caused my heel to catch his upper cheek. The soft rubber sole gripped the skin of his cheek and tore through it like a knife, leaving a four-inch gash.

On his back moaning like the little bitch he was, he began to realize I wasn’t there to be nice.

“What the fuck?” he bellowed. “Why in the fuck--”

“Shut up,” I said. “Or I’ll give you the boot again.”

He looked like he’d narrowly escaped death in a bare knuckles MMA fight. Despite his curiosity, he inched toward the wall behind him and leaned his head against it.

“What are--”

“What did I tell you?” I asked. “I’m not in the mood to listen to you.”

I leaned against the chair, let out a sigh, and looked right at him. “Listen to me.”

One eye was swollen shut, and what little of his nose remained was distorted so bad it was difficult to tell what it was. Regardless, he appeared to give me his full attention.

“Don’t agree, don’t disagree, just listen. Got it?”

He nodded.

I slid off the arm of the chair and began to pace the small living room. “A man has a responsibility on this earth. Respect his parents. Don’t lie to anyone but the cops. Don’t take things that aren’t yours. And never, no matter what, raise your hand to a woman.” I locked eyes with him. “You failed on at least one of those responsibilities.”

His only available eye fell to the floor in what I suspected was shame.

“If you ever, and I do mean ever, come near Joey again, if I don’t kill you tonight, I can promise you I will the next time. If you think you want to try something slick, and do something to me, or to my bike, think again. You’ll have the entire MC over here on you so fast you won’t have time to blink. When I leave here tonight, count your losses, realize you’re a piece of human shit, and learn to live with it. Any form of repercussion will only earn you a one-way ticket to meet your maker.”

He looked up.

“You think you’re going to come in my house and--”

I planted my boot against his chin. The impact knocked his head into the wall behind him.

“Shitty feeling, being beaten when you can’t defend yourself, isn’t it?” I asked. “Now you know how she felt. Defenseless.”

Saying it caused my blood to boil. The thought of him hitting Smudge hard enough to swell her eye closed sickened me.

I kicked him again, and again, and again.

When I came to my senses, I realized he was unconscious.

I walked to the kitchen, dug through the cabinets, and found a large bowl. After filling it with a few pounds of ice and some water, I carried it into the living room.

I poured the freezing water on his face.

He snapped to life. After spitting blood on the floor for a moment, he tilted his head upward. I had my doubts as to whether he could see me or not, but at least he was trying.

“We in agreement here?” I asked.

He nodded.

A puddle of blood had pooled on the floor. The wall behind him was covered in blood splatters from my kicking him.

The living room and adjacent hallway wall looked like a mass murder crime scene.

As much as I wanted to continue, I realized beating him any more would be the death of him. He’d require a hundred or so stitches, having his nose fixed, and he surely had a few broken ribs.

He spat on the floor and looked up.

I grinned at my handiwork. Dental implants. He’d need a few of those, too.

As he fumbled to get to his feet, I shook my head and turned away.

“I meant what I said,” I said over my shoulder. “Don’t come near her. Not for any reason. You lost the right.”

I opened the door, paused, and then turned around.

Standing a few feet in front of me with his hands still secured behind his back, he was truly defenseless.

Just like his stepdaughter was when he beat her.

I swung the toe of my right boot directly into his nuts.

He coughed out a mouthful of blood and crumbled to the floor.

That one was for Smudge, asshole.