Dynamics of a Human Heart Ch. 02

He continued to spin his walking stick like a baton twirler on parade, exhaling gouts of smoke from his scarred mouth as he studied the injured boy. On anyone else, it would have looked ludicrous.

On him, it looked terrifying.

"Stay down, nipper. It's not your night," he advised, placing his cigarette back in his mouth and took a deep drag contentedly.

The young man struggled to his feet and looked around, he could see people around him pointing at him, laughing at him.

That was all it took, he swung again at the older man.

The other man stepped out of the way and lashed out with his stick again, striking the boy's lower abdomen causing him to cry out and fall to his knees.

"Next: the liver," He began to lecture again with the practiced tone of experience, "Not just for filtering out alcohol," he began to circle the wounded boy like a shark, "it also connects to several major nerves in your body," the stick began to spin again, "your nervous system serves as your internal circuitry, just like a computer."

"And..." he added as he brought the stick down hard again in the same spot. The boy wailed in pain and rolled over onto his side curled up in the fetal position, "...just like a computer, if you damage the circuitry, you are well and truly..." he favored the wounded boy with a smile that bore no warmth, but only teeth and promised pain; his long strip of puckered scar tissue turning it into a horrific, lopsided, grin.

"...boned."

He struck out with his stick only to draw up short as Miranda dove in front of him.

"Enough!" she cried out, "He's had enough!"

He looked taken aback for a moment, then sneered at her, "Oh yes, and I'm sure he and his mates would have shown you and yo-yo knickers over there...," he gestured with his stick towards Sam, who had gone deathly pale, "...the same goddamn consideration!" he finished in a low snarl.

"I don't care, it's enough. He's had enough."

She felt a chill as he regarded her for a long moment, as if weighing the pros and cons of knocking her out of the way and finishing what he started; twin images of her terrified visage reflected back in her in his dark glasses. Everyone held their breath, except the boy on the floor, who was still trying to find his.

"Whatever, go collect your trim and let's go," he pointed to the bleeding young man on the floor, now crying openly and cradling his injuries, "And someone get him to a fucking hospital."

Miranda narrowed her eyes at his hateful tone, but he quickly made her way towards Sam. This time, people tripped over themselves in their hurry to get out of his way.

"Miri," Sam whispered, her face tear-stained, "I'm so sorry."

Miranda pushed aside her feelings of bitterness and resentment for the moment and helped Sam up bracing her against her body, "That's not important right now, Sam, where's your chair?"

"I.....I don't know, Miri, I can't remember," her expression was ravaged with shame, "Miranda, all that shit that man said, it was so awful."

Miranda cast a look back at the Englishman who clearly appeared to be getting impatient.

"I know love, I know, but we need to go," Miranda bent over and gently scooped her up into arms, carefully, sheer terror and adrenaline granting her strength previously unknown to her slim frame. She placed a kiss on her forehead and Sam wrapped her arms around her neck and squeezed it desperately.

The crowd parted for the lovers as they approached the blond man with a great deal of trepidation.

"About bloody time."

"Whatever," Miranda replied, she had had enough of everybody here, him most of all.

"Hang about," the man's stick shot up to bar Miranda and Samantha's way, bringing them to a jarring stop and causing Miranda to nearly drop the other girl.

"What?" she hissed.

"Some unfinished business there, Queenie."

He stalked over towards the injured young man who had just now been able to get to his feet. A single jab from the stick to his chest put him flat on his back. The blond man put on foot on top of the man's sternum, pressing the tip of his stick into his throat.

"This is your trachea," he hissed, "Do you know what happens if it stops working?"

The other man could only gurgle in terror.

"What are you-?" Miranda began.

"Girls, front and center," he called over his shoulder before returning to peer down at the man underneath his stick, as if he were some kind of interesting insect,

"This bloke has something he would like to say to you both," he brought his stick up and cracked him in the nose, "on your feet blighter."

The young boy crawled up to his feet, clutching his nose that was bleeding profusely.

The older man casually stepped behind him and brought his stick right up under his chin and flush against his throat. The young boy's eyes bulged and he began color at the sudden lack of oxygen.

"What are you doing?!" Miranda yelled at him.

"This boy has something to say to you both," he told her before turning back to regard the boy he held in a chokehold and was rapidly turning purple,

"Repeat after me Billy, do you mind if I call you Billy? Never mind, not important. Say 'I'm sorry'".

"guh thorry!" the boy choked out.

"Not good enough," he loosened the stick a little, "Again, and make me believe it."

"I'm sorry...." The boy said sullenly.

The Englishman sank his fist into the boy's kidneys pressing his knuckles tight into the soft tissue and grinding up and into it, like twisting a knife in a wound.

It caused 'Billy' to cry out in pain and nearly fall again except the stick across his throat that was choking him and keeping him upright.

"Not really feeling it Billy."

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"

The other man kicked him in the back of the knee and dragged the boy down onto his knees, eye level with Sam.

"Her too."

"I'm so, so, sorry," he gurgled, "Please don't kill me."

The other man turned to the girls, still crouched behind the boy with his stick across his throat, like some kind of predator.

"What do you say, girls?" he turned to address the youth in his grasp, "just a couple of kilos of pressure and kccchh!! "He twisted the stick flush across Billy's throat, "Billy goes to that big do in the sky?"

Samantha and Miranda moistened very dry lips; tonight had gotten way out of control: the man in front of them would kill Billy if they gave the word without a moment's hesitation, they were certain of it.

"Don't do it!" Miranda cried out.

He shifted his glance to Sam, "And you luv, are you feeling particularly merciful?"

"Yes," she said quietly.

"Even though he and his friends were going to take out their pin-dicks and turn you into a goddamn voodoo doll?"

Sam nodded, fresh tears began to form in her eyes at the harshness of the words and the even harsher visions they conjured. She couldn't take much more; the horror of what had nearly happened to her and Miranda and what could happen right now in front of them was pushing her to her breaking point.

"Yes! Yes, just don't....don't kill him, please."

The man smirked, as if he knew that was exactly what she was going to say and he turned to regard Billy.

"Say 'thank you' to the nice, little, lesbians Billy," he grabbed Billy's head to force him to look at the two girls, "they just saved your life."

"Th-thank you," Billy gurgled out, he was crying too. Everyone else was just terrified.

Slowly, the he dragged Billy up by the stick under his chin until they were both standing with the older man still standing behind the younger, his stick still across this throat.

"If I see, hear, or even think about you near these girls or any other that isn't either a relation or being paid by the hour," the blonde man leaned into Billy's ear, "I'll hurt you in ways no man ever comes back from. Do you understand?"

Billy jerked his head up and down, openly blubbering at this point.

"Bright lad."

He released Billy in a sudden movement, causing the boy to fall to his knees. He then planted a foot at the small of his back and pushed him over.

"Class dismissed," he muttered, taking out a fresh cigarette as he tossed the burnt out stub onto Billy's head and turned to address the girls, "We're leaving."

Without even a backward glance, he made his way back to the poker table.

The girls followed, very cautiously.

"Is he going to kill us?" Sam asked from her place cradled within Miranda's arms.

"God, I hope not," was her only reply.

"Those whoresons!" yelled a Cockney accent.

"Oh god, we're gonna die," Sam squeaked.

"We're not going to die," Miranda assured her, doing her best to remember that between all the alcohol and stark terror, her lover was not in her right mind. Carefully, she crept up behind the blond man who was standing and looking very irate...

...at an empty poker table, bereft of winnings.

"Four hundred plus dollars," he growled spacing out each word like a slap to the face as he turned on Miranda and Sam, "It is official, you two bloody tarts are costing me both time and money, neither of which I feel particularly inclined to part with in the first place."

"I'm sorry," Miranda said quietly.

"No you're not, you got what you wanted," he gestured at Sam, "Your little chippy, safe as houses. And, because of you both, I'm short of booze and fag money for the week."

"Hey! Watch who you're calling a-" Sam began.

"It means 'cigarette'," Miranda quietly corrected her.

"...oh."

Meanwhile, the blonde man jerked on his jacket, took out a fresh cigarette and lit up as he looked at the two girls.

"Well, I'd say it was a lovely time, but none of us here are stupid enough to believe that shite. So—"he stopped and looked at Sam, "Well actually, maybe you are," he turned his gaze back to Miranda and made a 'shoo' gesture with his fingers, "why don't you two just sod off?"

"Hey!"

The man turned to look at Miranda, "You never even told us your name!."

"Figured that out all by yourself, did you there, Binty? "He took a drag from his cigarette and pointed, "What color is your dress there?"

Miranda frowned in confusion and looked down, "It's gray, but what-"

"Fantastic, you may call me 'Mr. Grey' then, with an 'e'," he told her deadpan, "my mates just call me 'Grey' but I don't know you that well so..."

Appearing to ignore the looks of indignation and outrage both girls were giving him, he brushed past them and headed out the door, puffing away vehemently as he stepped onto the street.

"Bloody university prats," he muttered. Especially those two girls, they'd really gotten under her skin. So had Billy, but then he'd had the opportunity to administer a savage beating to Billy, which brought him some comfort.

"Wait! Mister Grey!"

The blonde man looked up into the night sky with a "Why me, dear god?" expression before turning to see the two girls exiting; Miranda still cradling Sam in her arms.

"What in the name of Her Majesty's knickers could either of you possibly want more from me?" he demanded.

"We need a ride home." Sam informed him.