The Slapping Game

Part 1

"I challenged so it's my turn first, of course," he lied.

Aaron simply nodded and stretched the back of his big, calloused hand out over the distance between them. The sight of the shaker before him made Vee falter.

Wouldn't it be nice if I could finish this with one blow? I wouldn't have that paw coming back at me then, would I? He thought.

He raised his hand high over his head, a gesture largely unnecessary except in the interest of psychological warfare. He then snapped his body forwards as his arm bent back at the elbow and coiled fast like a scorpion's stinger. His hand then came rushing down to smack heavily against the back of Aaron's hand. The sudden impact caused his victim's body to shudder and the class next door quieted down as the resounding smack reached the students' ears. Vee's momentary feeling of triumph was short-lived, however. Aaron raised his hand to his face and closely inspected the patterned red weal there.

"Guess it's my turn then, right?" He remarked softly.

Vee stifled a tremor and instead stretched his hand out to be slapped. Aaron then stretched his own out in similar fashion and lightly tapped the back of his adversary's hand.

"Stop rehearsing, Airhead! Just go ahead and do it!" Vee snapped.

"But ... but I did just do it. Go on, it's your turn now," Aaron replied seriously, his outstretched hand already waiting for the follow-up strike.

As the neighboring classrooms resumed their normal volume of activity, Class 2 became deathly silent. Slapping games that had been taking place around them were forgotten as the students, some entertained, others horrified, contemplated what Aaron had just said. Before the first one of them managed to say anything useful, however, Vee's hand came rushing down with tremendous force. The deafening smack silenced the already noiseless, and soon he began to hear the clutter of chairs as students from Class 1 and 3 began to search for the source of that awful, wonderful sound.

Thirty three pairs of eyes watched incredulously as Aaron tapped Vee lightly on the back of his hand.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!" Half the classroom elected to shout at once.

In the midst of the confusion, Wendy bulldozed her way through, having apparently decided that in the interest of defending the mentally retarded, she would be giving Aaron more specific instructions on how to play the game. As she gesticulated furiously to her confused-looking colleague, Vee watched the scene with a furrow in his brow, opening and closing his hand so that the numbness there could go away.

"So what do you think he's up to?" Damian whispered to his ear.

Vee was about to shake his head when a thought came to him.

"He's bluffing. Look at his face."

"Bullshit. He's as relaxed as a Buddhist priest! He's –"

"No, dammit. Look at the scars. Around his eyes and mouth. He gets a daily beating at home, I'm sure of it. He must be so used to it by now he can probably easily hide the pain. I'm gonna have to hit harder."

"Can you hit harder?" Damian asked in disbelief.

Vee nodded with a grimace.

"Yeah. Problem is, if he's drawing this out, it means he's confident that he's gonna win. I've gotta capitalize and damage him before he starts to get serious. Otherwise, what if his confidence is justified?"

"You're smart, Vee," Damian stated in admiration. "Take him out early then."

"Your hand, Airhead." Vee demanded loudly.

Wrestling himself free from Wendy's persistent attempts to instruct him, Aaron smiled unevenly and stretched out his hand.

Vee's hand came crashing down with a deafening smack.

*****

On the fourth floor of the main building, the heated argument continued. Municipal representatives sat stony-faced as members of the staff attempted to explain how a nine year old boy had managed to rupture his spleen. In the midst of the prolonged exchange, a troubled teacher turned his head yet again towards the open window, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

He had been hearing a persistent smacking sound over the last few minutes, although it had since decreased in intensity and was now almost imperceptible. He wondered whether his unruly students were once again playing that dreadful game, although the more pragmatic part of his mind refused to believe that the source of the sound could be in any way related to that. After all, his classroom was two floors down and its windows had been barred before he left for this horrid meeting.

The whole situation made him feel sick in hissubstantial gut. The Thorpe boy's main injury was bad enough, of course, but thatwasn't what had his fellow teachers trying to impinge plausible explanationslike snake-oil salesmen. What the faculty was secretly afraid of was theexamining doctor's casual reference in his report to unusual swelling on theback of the boy's right hand, a swelling that couldn't altogether be explainedby the fall itself.   

*****