The Slapping Game

Part 2

His bloodlust had made its appearance.

SMACK! Tap SMACK! Tap SMACK! Tap SMACK! Tap SMACK! Tap SMACK!

Every swipe soon sent drops of sweat pattering against Aaron's dentine white shirt and the sound, that wonderful sound, like his mother smacking her lips against a loudspeaker, was exquisite music to his ears. He became taken with the rhythm and stabilized at a slap per second, Aaron apparently only too willing to match his pace. In the midst of it all, Vee's mind broke free and began to perceive events with detached fascination. His frenzied, jerky movements allowed only limited appraisal, yet still he noted that he was slapping something with the consistency and shape of a potato. An electrifying bolt of pain finally shot up his arm and he jumped in place, gripping the offending hand's wrist as if by applying enough force he would be able to throttle the pain.

Aaron's hand pendulated at his waist, his expression dull and disappointed as Vee tried to dance the pain away. It was an odd dance, constrained as it was by the surrounding desks and schoolbags. Several hands had to grip Vee's shoulders before Damian was able to inspect the damage.

"What ... What's wrong? It's a bit more swollen that before but otherwise I don't see the difference, Vee," he said.

"That's 'cause it's not connected to your brain, dimwit!" Vee howled back at him. "Freaking thing's hurting like –"

"Doesn't matter, Vee! If it's as bad as you're saying then this is all over. Concede victory and let's see if we can get your hand under running water before –"

"NO!"

The reply was immediate and came out more as a snarl than a coherent word, but Damian understood his meaning anyway. He slowly shook his head.

"I like you, Vee, but sometimes I wonder if you've got a screw loose in there. That shit on Monday –" He stopped immediately as the expression on his friend's face became murderous.

"Don't ..." Vee whispered through clenched teeth, "give me shit about Monday, you pussy. He had it coming. They all have it coming. There's no place here for the soft. No place for the weak. No place for ... for the abnormal ..."

He whispered the last part very softly, pulling Damian close so that Aaron wouldn't overhear. It made no difference; Aaron appeared to be lost in his own thoughts. Damian pulled away as if the proximity revolted him. Vee's anger at his friend's reaction, however, was defused by a sudden realization. The pain in his hand had left just as suddenly as it had arrived. The member felt hot instead. In fact, it was positively glowing red. Or maybe that was due to the blood-engorged tissue.

Nope, he reconsidered, it's definitely glowing hot. My hands are steel and when they're hot they glow just like steel. There's no way I can lose with these hands.

There was a soft clearing of throat, making it known that Aaron had returned from his thoughts. Vee turned and approached his opponent, and then stretched his hand out fearlessly to be slapped.

Tap.

There were no cries of outrage. All were silent except for those students standing at the entrance to the corridor, who appeared to be narrating every turn of events to those unable to lay eyes on the battle inside. Aaron calmly extended his hand out to be slapped.

Aside from the puffy fingers sticking out as one would see with inflated surgical gloves, his right hand was nearly indistinguishable from a red potato. About the only thing that broke the illusion was the now evident collection of scars there, most of them small and numerous, others larger, deeper, crueler. The purple spot near his wrist had expanded like an infection towards where the first knuckle of his middle finger should have been. It was at the moment nearly invisible, the surrounding skin inflamed enough to have transfigured it into a wrinkly dimple. The particularly nasty scar that crossed the purple region appeared as if it was stretched out to its limit.