Take Away the Saints

Milk Money: A Joseph Tugger Short || Mike Marsbergen

"Hmm, well, okay..." she said, her arms crossed. Rubbed her elbows with each hand. "Just don't start anything again, okay, Tugger? You don't want to get expelled."

The bench-press rattled as I dropped the weights. Sat up. Cracked my neck. "I never start it, Mom. I finish it." I walked past my brother, giving my cheeks a feel. "I'm gonna go shave," I said.

3

The next day at school, I saw Henry chatting by his locker to his friends. He had a white cast on his wrist. Lots of signatures on it, I noticed. He stopped talking when he saw me looking. Not wanting any trouble, I shut my locker and headed off to class with my textbook in hand.

I didn't see Henry—not until I neared the staircase up to the second floor. He and two others stepped out from around the corner.

"Well, well, well," he said, "if it isn't the stupid kid." He held out his hand, the one not attached to a broken wrist. "Milk money. Now."

"Eat shit," I told him, making to move past. The other two stepped in front of me. "You guys don't want to do this. See his wrist? See those patches of hair missing from his head? I did that. Because he fucked with me. And if either of you two fuck with me, I'll hurt you. Now move. I want to get to class. Mr. Bradley's showing a movie on nucleotides, and I don't plan on missing a second."

"Mistah Bwadwey's showing a moooowie," Henry mimicked, flailing his arms around. "Boys, get my milk money from this dumb kid."

"I warned you once," I told the pair of goons as they cracked their knuckles and grinned. "Now I'm warning you twice. Don't try it." And all that time I was studying them, planning out my moves. The one on the left, Freckle-Face, must've stubbed his left toe recently, as he favoured his right foot and would wince when applying too much pressure to his left. The one on the right, One-Eye, wore an eyepatch, so his depth perception would be way off. Neither would prove much of a challenge. Besides, I had my science textbook in my hand.

Henry faked a yawn. "Don't make me tell you again, boys. He's only in grade three."

"Last warning," I said, looking down at them. They had three years on me. I had about a hundred and seventy pounds and two feet on each of them.

They advanced on me. I moved.

One-Eye came at me swiftly, no doubt trying to surprise me. He didn't. I was too wired, too amped-up. I jumped over his head and wrapped my arm around his neck, cutting off the oxygen to his brain. Freckle-Face must've thought his buddy was occupying my attention, as he came next, punching me in the ribs a couple of times. It didn't hurt. I swung the textbook backwards, striking Freckle-Face in the nose. It broke and he howled as blood poured out like a faucet. I struck him again, and again—until he hit the floor like a bag of bricks. Then I dropped a now-limp One-Eye onto his sleeping buddy, and they dreamed together.

I turned on Henry. He stuttered nonsense. I backed him up against the wall. "Have you learned your lesson yet?" I asked him.

"I-I-I-I uh-uh-uh-uh—"

"Pick on someone your own size, bully." I grabbed him by his remaining wrist and snapped it over my knee like a twig. He screamed in pain, sliding down the wall, sobbing uselessly at his limp, rubbery arm, before the pain became too much to bear and he fell unconscious.

Sighing, I looked at the blood all over my science textbook. I wiped it on my white shirt, but I knew the textbook would be stained forever. That was thirty bucks out of my allowance. Wiped my hands on my jeans. Headed upstairs. My biological clock told me I was exactly two minutes and eight-point-zero-one seconds late for class. I was disappointed in myself. "Too slow," I muttered. "You're getting old, Tugger." I prided myself on my punctuality.