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Carvin G Wallson

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Black As Night
by Billy Wells

A compilation of 32 short stories, most in the horror genre and most with surprise endings. Not for the faint of heart and those prone to nightmares...  
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Hero, Part One
By Carvin G Wallson
Thursday, January 14, 2010

Rated "PG" by the Author.

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Recent stories by Carvin G Wallson
· Girl Around the Block
· The Racketeers
· All Hope! Part VB
· All Hope! Part VA
· All Hope! Part IVB
· All Hope! Part IVA
· All Hope! Part IIIE--New Year's Eve and Beyond
           >> View all 16


K'ing A and T'ing N's.

  It all started innocently enough, although I’m not sure innocent would be the right word. I was innocent, at least I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have been convicted of anything had the police gotten involved. Either way, the story begins with me walking innocently home from work. Except that there’s a story behind why I was walking, and it may not make much sense if I don’t give you at least a little background. Where I really want to start is July of this year. The year’s not all that important, but it was the latter part of the aughties. I mention July because the weather is relevant. I have a somewhat crappy car, and had a few problems with the “Check Engine” light. The heat exasperated the situation, and it finally got to the point where I felt like I needed to get the problem taken care of once and for all. This led me to spending quite a bit of money (something got replaced, then something else when that didn’t work, and it wasn’t like they could undo the first thing and remove the charge) and to me having to walk to work a couple of days. As it turns out, even though the days I walked to work were some of the hottest of the year, I enjoyed walking. Pretty much unrelated to the story is the fact that I convinced a friend that I had crashed my car and had no transportation for about six months, but I thought it was funny. What is important is that I started walking to work that day and, after learning my lesson by having to drive of the few rainy days the first month provided and deciding to buy an umbrella, I had to walk. Things just weren’t right when I didn’t. After a few weeks of walking—and the early-to-bed, early-to-rise mentality that came about because of the 4-mile, seventy-five-minute addition to my morning routine—I became a bit healthier. Because I was walking on some very hot days, the polo shirt which was the quasi-uniform of my trade got popped off quite frequently. This made me a little more body-conscious, which led to even earlier rising and a mild regimen of pushups and sit-ups to keep the ladies (I hope ladies) looking. So, on the particular day that this story begins, I was walking home from work, although it was later in the year, which meant I’d both been prone to leaving my shirt on and had moved a bit closer. It wasn’t a terrible day, but everyday I worked had become terrible in its own way. The days were getting shorter, and this led to a bit more lethargy when it came to getting out of bed in the morning, which in turn often led to a generally bad start to the day. I was already in a bad mood, as the dusk had set in sooner than I’d been used to and eliminated the sunset-facing western walk I’d been used to at this time. I should point out here, although it’s a bit of a spoiler, that I live in a very small city, and was walking home through an area that was certainly not the most crime-addled, but also not the sanitized business-park area which I’d moved from. Anyway, the mugging (that word seems a little dated) came about with some amount of subtlety. First it was some sob story about having to catch a bus, followed by a plea for whatever I could give. I’d gotten used to dealing with such, as the college I’d attended had become somewhat infamous for being an elite school surrounded by an especially hard-hit working-class city. I’d give a dollar or two, if I had it and the person seemed pathetic enough, or else shrug them off. After all, we were both going to use the money to get drunk, so it seemed like they’d deserve a share as well. This guy was different, though. After the casual brush-off and what I thought was the end of our communication, he continued to follow me. I was paranoid, of course, but didn’t want to let him know that. What kind of a human being would I be if I assumed that every beggar, street urchin or hobo that walked in the same direction as I were a hardened criminal? I casually looked over my shoulder and noticed how closely he followed behind before making an attempt to cross the street. If he would have been smart, he could have easily tailed me from the other side of the street and waited until I’d turned down the dimly-lit side street I always took home, but he was not. He continued to follow right behind me, and, when I made a few quick steps to get separation, made an almost leaping lunge towards me with a fist cocked. He caught me just above the neck. Again, not a great move on his part. When a head shot doesn’t put the target down, it makes for an awfully strong adrenaline rush. I got that separation quickly, and was surprised that he chased. I felt sure footed, however, and was not at all foreign to the idea of running through yards. I got to a fence and, not knowing for sure how far behind he was and not wanting to slow myself down by looking, had to make a choice. It sure looked like something I could jump, but, then again, I’d normally practiced this sort of feat when I was a bit more than tipsy—a situation that would not only dull any pain caused by the mere failure of the stunt, but also not involve any subsequent pain from the beating following the failure. I tried it, and—sure enough—it was within my skill set to do so. With that under my belt, I felt I could try to hide behind a nearby bush and catch my breath, while also scanning the area for a weapon were my evasion not enough. I had a clear view of my own path over the fence and, in watching him, noted that he wasn’t nearly as confident as I in his abilities. He slowed down greatly to get himself a good handhold, but still was unable to make an error-free crossing. His pant leg caught on the top of the fence, and I recognized immediately my chance to get away. The throbbing headache replaced the danger I’d been feeling, and my mind went to the weapon I’d found—an almost perfect club-weighted tree branch—and the feeling of revenge I felt proper for the pain I’d been afflicted. As he struggled to free himself, I took a home run swing at his ankle—accomplishing his task and getting my comeuppance in one motion. Maybe my own adrenaline rush, combined with the minor head trauma, blurred my thinking, because, although the injury I inflicted was a bit more debilitating it nonetheless put him on the same crazed, chemical-fueled plane he’d gotten me to. He pounced from his position on the ground and hit my midsection with more force than my premature-victory-calm could sustain. I went down, but found myself in a good position to attack full force on whatever I could reach. He tried to hold on through the blows, but eventually loosened up his grip enough to leave himself open for a knee to the chin. I then got on top of him and—wrapped up in the feeling that I was in a video game martial arts tournament—pressed the stick down hard on his throat. Once the fight had gone out of him, the silent cries brought me back to reality. I threw the stick down and took off at a mild jog. Eventually, after going several blocks out of my way to ensure that he was off of my path, I made a beeline home. I guess it hadn’t occurred to me at the time that I should have called the police. It wasn’t that I was afraid of getting into trouble—let’s face it, most officers still aren’t enlightened enough to take white folks’ and black folks’ stories at the same value. It just never crossed my mind. I started to think about the implications of what I’d done, however, after the few drinks I’d taken to calm me down started to set in. I’d just done what I’d dreamed of doing so many times when I was ten years old—I’d fought a genuine “bad guy” and won.



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