Peter and the Roof

Peter kissed Lois goodbye, got into his brown station wagon, and drove down to Joe's meat market, a small store right in the heart of town with a large window in front. Peter stood at the counter, cogitating what to buy. Joe was a loquacious butcher, so naturally he began to talk Peter’s arm off.

But Peter wasn’t really paying attention; he had this strange feeling, almost like a sixth sense, that someone was watching him. He was correct--for when he turned around, he saw, through the large window, a reddish-brown and burly rooster eyeing him from the sidewalk. More than eyeing really; the rooster was steely-eyed, and his burning stare Peter’s way was not at all cordial.

Peter felt all of his two hundred and fifty pounds tense up. His eyes narrowed, his forehead wrinkled, and his lower and upper lip drew back, revealing clenched teeth. In Peter’s mind, the course of action was ineluctable: a fight, a one-on-one man versus rooster confrontation--a flesh to feather, fist to wing, nose to beak fist-a-cuff in the street brawl. And so it was.

Glass caromed off brick and streetlamp as Peter crashed through the window, flying full-force into his nemesis, sending them both unceremoniously into the street. The battle was on. Punch after punch, claw and scratch, thump and whirl, hand to throat, beak to cheek, a riot of thrashing, blood, torn feather, purple bruise and torn shirt. The combatants rolled in entangled fury down the street, past parked car and amazed pedestrian. Theirs was a most aberrant meeting.

Positions were constantly exchanged, advantage shifted like great bags of sand, one would be on top, the other supine, then in a flash positions would be reversed. Peter’s face became pock-marked, dented like an under inflated soccer ball, Rooster Red’s eyes more and more the glaze of donut sugar. This was sparring on a magnificent level.

Pieces of glass adhered to Peter’s gabardines, and cut his thighs. Yet he found revived energy, just when Roster Red had seemed to gain an advantage with three well-placed piston-like blows to Peter’s nose and jaw. Peter was a country boy at heart, and this was mere sojourn. His large fist and meaty forearm was no match for his opponent, and with a few repeated piston-pumping punches, sent Red the Rooster into unconsciousness right at the curb of Main and Second Street.

Peter stood up and brushed dust and debris and wet feathers from himself in dignified fashion. A crowd had gathered around in befuddled curiosity, including Joe, who was there in his white apron. Without so much as a glance at anyone, Peter then moved in haste back to Joe’s meat market and climbed the stairs leading up to the roof. Most people were still at the scene when Peter came to the edge of the roof, and, like Rocky the boxer on the summit of victory, raised both hands, and pointed his jaw to the sky.

Joe had returned to his store when Peter came back down and stood at the counter. Before Joe could utter a word, Peter said coolly: “You, sir, owe me one chicken.”

For Hawk’s Vocabulary Contest
March 2012 Words: 536

Five words used:
--Loquacious
--Ineluctable
-- Caromed
-- Aberrant
--Sojourn