The Lesson

Daily Flash Fiction entry, 02/11/12 - Honorable Mention

The Lesson


"Sir?  Sir!  Stay with me, sir; help's on the way."

The small man's eyelids fluttered open again, and his gaze slowly shifted back to the patrolman's face.

"Can you tell me anything about who did this, sir?" the officer asked.

Slowly, each word filled with pain, the man described the attack and his attackers.

"Punks. . . always coming into my store. . . taking things, breaking things. . . thinking I fear them. . . ."  The narrative continued a few minutes more, ended by the arrival of the ambulance.  The paramedics checked him over and loaded him into the vehicle, which screamed off into the night.

Grille lights flashing, an unmarked car pulled up.  The shift commander got out and walked over to the patrolman.

"What do we have, Thompson?"

"Name's Sam Griston, lieutenant.  He's sixty, lives here above his store.  Says punks are always coming in, hassling him and the customers, taking stuff--the usual; based on his description of their clothing and the store's location, it's most likely the Warlords.

"Three of 'em came in about an hour ago.  When they started pushing him around, he decided he'd had enough.  He grabbed a can of hair spray and a lighter, made himself a blowtorch and aimed for their faces.  They split up, made a circle and took him down.  Beat and stomped him pretty bad.  He's lucky it wasn't those skinheads from across town.  The Warlords prefer New Balance to those guys' boots."

"Well, that explains the burnt hair smell.  Did he say anything else?"

"Yeah.  He said, 'That will teach them a lesson.'  Sounded kinda proud, too."

"Well," replied the lieutenant, "if we catch them, he may be right.  For now, though, the only one who got a lesson--Don't mess with the Warlords--is him."


[WC: 293]