1
"Gimme your milk money, kid, or you'll be eating knuckle sandwiches for weeks," the bully said, his head bent way back in his attempt to stare fear into my eyes.
But I wasn't afraid. "Who's gonna make me? You?" I asked him, sarcastically, because I already knew the answer.
The bully jammed his thumb into the centre of his chest. "Me. Now hand it over unless you wanna die a virgin for the rest of your life."
"Maybe I do," I told him, digging into my pockets and rattling around the change. "I've got enough coins in here to buy milk for everybody. Except you." I heard the oooohs of approval.
"Beat him up, Henry!" one of the bully's friends shouted from the sidelines. He punched at the air.
Henry, the bully, put his fists up and took the stance.
I saw fear in his eyes as he stared up at me, all six-foot-five of me. "Try it and you'll be breathing through a straw in your chest. I'm warning you. Don't do it."
"Get him, Tugger!" my older brother Jack said from behind me.
"I'll get him if tries anything. I'll get him if he's a fool."
Suddenly Henry charged at me, screaming his head off, shaking it from side to side, windmilling his fists every which way but hitting nothing but air.
Big mistake.
I'd take him down in two seconds. Two seconds. Two moves.
First, I rocketed my arm out and, timed perfectly, collided it with his wrist as it flew past my rock-hard stomach. His wrist shattered and one half of the broken bone ripped through his skin, shining white and bloody. One move. One second.
Then, as he shrieked and bled everywhere, staring in awe at the state of his now-useless arm, I grabbed him by the hair and swung him around in circles. I let go at the precise moment and sent him flying, knowing the laws of physics would work in my favour. He went spinning through the air and landed, exactly as I intended, headfirst in a garbage bin. Two moves. Two seconds.
Everybody laughed at Henry as he tried to free himself, his legs kicking back and forth, shouting for help, crying. Everybody laughed. But I didn't. It wasn't funny to me. I'd warned him. "You just wouldn't listen, Henry," I said, shaking my head. I turned and walked away, ignoring the held-high high-fives.
I went and bought myself a carton of milk. Drank it at the corner table, where all the other nerds sat.
2
After school, Mom really chewed me out about standing up for myself.
"Tugger," she said, looking up at me as I did my afterschool bicep curls, "you're only eight years old! You can't go around breaking the wrists of other kids and tossing them into the trash!"
I finished my fifty curls and set the hundred-pound weights on the floor. "I warned him, Mom. He wouldn't listen."
"Tugger's right, Mom," Jack said from the doorway. He'd been listening the whole time. "Henry, the bully— He had it coming. He's an asshole."
"Jack, don't use that language!" Mom shouted. "What was this even about, Tugger?"
"He tried to steal my milk money, Mom," I said, laying myself down on the bench-press bench. I slotted in three hundred pounds and got to work. "You know..." I grunted between lifts, "I like... my milk..."
"Hmm, okay... He isn't younger than you, is he, Tugger?"
"Not... in my... grade..."
"He's three years older than Tugger, Mom," Jack said. "My grade."
"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.
I opened the door to science and braced myself for the inevitable.
Mr. Bradley stopped setting up the TV and turned to me. "Tugger, you've got blood on you! What on Earth happened?"
"It's not my blood. The bleeders are downstairs."
4
I got an earful at home from Mom.
"Tugger, that's two fights in two days! What the hell's going on?"
I was barely listening. Too focused on doing my push-ups. My goal was six hundred—I was at four hundred and ninety-nine. Beads of sweat rolled off my forehead. Little droplets fell to the floor in front of my face, forming a steadily growing pool. Every second I neared the pool, then drifted, neared, drifted.
"Tugger!"
"It was three on one, Mom," I told her. Felt the burn in my body. My abs were on fire.
"Three on—" She glanced at Jack, who was, of course, standing in the doorway. "You, Tugger and John?" she said to him, the latter name ripe with disbelief.
John was my other older brother, younger than Jack by a year, older than me by two. John wasn't a fighter by any means. He was into Barbie dolls and fashion. And unicorns.
"No, Mom," Jack said. "It was three bullies against Tugger."
"Oh..."
"Relax, Ashley," Dad said as he stepped into my bedroom. He was short, about five-seven: my height when I was four. "Tugger's a good kid. He's just laying down the law, aren't you, Tugger?"
"Only when they break it," I said, standing up. Dad tossed me a towel to wipe away my sweat. I flexed my biceps, watching the veiny balls of muscle rise up on my arms. "Grab on, Dad." He did, and then I did squats with my dad hanging from my arms like a monkey.
"Man, you're getting strong, Joe," he said to me as I put him down. He must've seen the look on my face, because he quickly added, "Sorry. Tugger. Sometimes the old man wants to call the baby of the family by his given name, y'know?"
"Yeah, I get it."
"Say, Tugger. When you get the chance, could you see what's bugging John? I tried talking to him, but you know how he gets. Shut me right out."
"What's the matter with John?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. I was very protective of my brothers. Occasionally a bully would be stupid enough to mess with either Jack or John. Needless to say, my brothers didn't get bullied for very long. Nobody bothered the Tuggers.
"I dunno." Dad shrugged. "He muttered something about milk money and went back to playing with his Barbie Dreamhouse. Anyway— Woah!"
"Sorry, Dad," I said, shoving him out of the way, "but I've gotta get to the bottom of this."
It would take an average eight-year-old twenty steps to reach John's closed door from my room, but I did it in two. Kicked in the door. John looked up at me, wearing his blonde princess wig, tears running down his cheeks. He had Barbie and my old Batman toy driving together in a pink Corvette. My ten-year-old brother's lower lip trembled, and he whimpered out, "He t-took my m-milk m-money and called me a f-f-fag, Tugger."
"Who, John?" I sat down beside him and squeezed him close. "Who took your milk money?"
"H-Henry," he said and cried into my chest.
I kissed him on the wig. "Shhh. It's okay, John. Henry won't be bugging you. Not anymore." Holding John, I pondered just what the hell Henry's deal was with milk money.
5
I was done playing games. When I got to school the next day, my plan was to put my bag in my locker and then find Henry. Reaching my locker, however, I saw a note taped to the front. It was an invitation to Henry's twelfth birthday party. Ten o'clock that night, at the abandoned train yard. The note said to RSVP immediately.
I went to go find Henry.
I spotted him laughing it up with his buddies at his locker, casts on both wrists today. He saw me coming and visibly gulped, backing up until his back banged against the locker.
Grabbing Henry by the collar, I lifted him up until we were eye to eye. "I heard you were bullying my brother John. Big mistake, pal." Before Henry could say anything, I turned around and threw him across the hallway. He hit the lockers on the other side with his tailbone and slumped to the tiled floor, snot running from his nose, sobbing hysterically. "There's your RSVP."
"I can't feel my legs!" he cried.
"Good," I told him. "Every time you can't feel your legs, remember my name. Remember Tugger. See you at your birthday party tonight." I walked off to class, leaving him to his paralysis.
6
Just before ten, I grabbed my present and headed for the door. As I opened it, Dad called out from the TV room: "Where you going, Tugger?"
"Just heading to a birthday party at the abandoned train yard!" I replied, then waited a moment for a response.
"Okay, Tugger," Mom said, "but be back by seven! You've got school tomorrow!"
"I will." I went outside and closed the door behind me. It was dark and wet. Good thing I'd dressed for the weather. Wearing a tight-fitting raincoat and my yellow rubber boots with duckies on them, I went splashing through the night. It'd been a while since I'd been to the train yard, but I knew the way. Wasn't worried about anyone hassling me. There weren't many left in town who would. I wasn't your average eight-year-old. People don't usually mess with two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle. And if they do... I teach them not to.
Seeing the train yard up ahead, dark and empty, I wondered what kind of birthday party I was attending. The building was pitch-black inside, and most of the windows were broken. I negotiated the staircase with ease, thanks to my long legs and well-exercised body. Passed the old payphone. I couldn't remember when the train yard had been abandoned—might've been when Reagan was still president. That prick.
The rain and wind were really picking up, so I hurried inside, eager to be sheltered. I heard whispers in the dark. Then a light came on.
"That's him, Dad!" Henry said. He was in a wheelchair and wore a full-body cast.
"Shit, he's a big boy, ain't he?" said Henry's dad, a twiggy bearded man, who I noticed had a mouthful of rotten teeth.
They were both positioned in front of a load of wooden crates, some of them stacked way up to the ceiling.
"Happy birthday," I told Henry, and tossed him his present. His cast-stiffened arms stuck straight out, immobile, and the present bounced off his chest and hit the floor. "It's one of my Stephen King books. Thought you might like to read it. If you know how to read."
"I hear you've been givin' my boy a hard time 'bout yer milk money." His dad grabbed a baseball bat from on top of the crate behind him and smacked the barrel of it against his palm. Took some steps toward me. "Why don' I teach ya a little respect."
I knew what he was about to do, so I rushed him before he could swing the bat at me. When you're facing off against an opponent with a baseball bat, the important thing to do is to terminate them before they can complete the swing. Because a swing only gets powerful with the follow-through. Anything before that and it lacks the bite you'd expect from a hit with a bat.
Henry's dad managed to swing the bat two inches before I blocked it with my forearm, knocking it out of his hand, and then gave him a nice swift kick to his balls. He went down to his knees, so I grabbed him by the hair and kneed him in the face. Once. Twice. Three times. Then I slapped him. Saw his teeth go flying out and watched them break when they hit the cement floor. The man collapsed, blood pouring from his mouth. Out cold.
"W-W-W-Wait, Tugger!" Henry's eyes were full of fear as I stepped towards him.
I booted his wheelchair and tipped him over. Saw his broken wrist take the brunt of it. His eyes fluttered at the pain and he was gone.
Now to take care of my suspicions.
Digging my fingers into the side of one of the crates, I pulled with all my muscle. The wood splintered and I threw the board aside. Took one look inside—exactly as I suspected.
I went outside and fed a quarter into the payphone. Dialled 9-1-1. Waited. "Hi, this is Tugger. I'd like to report a crime."
7
The boys in blue arrived quickly. I showed them the crooks and the operation I'd stumbled on.
The sergeant whistled. "Smuggling methamphetamine in little cartons of milk. Can't say I've seen that before. Good work, Tugger."
"I thought Henry's obsession with getting milk money was suspicious," I told him. "He didn't seem to want money normally used to buy other stuff. Only milk money. Then it clicked. He was using the stolen milk money to buy the milk cartons. He'd take them home and his dad would fill them with crystal meth. It was pretty smart. I bet you'll find his dad works for a milk-delivery company."
One of the other officers came in from outside. "Hey, Sarge, there's a truck parked out back. Moo-Moo Milk Co. Looks like it belongs to the father."
"Told you," I said.
The sergeant smiled. Put his hands on his hips. "Maybe you'll join the police force one day, Tugger."
"I doubt it. I'm not one for rules."
"Yeah, that's what I admire about you, Tugger. You live by your own code, law be damned."
I nodded to Henry and his dad, who were both still unconscious, but handcuffed now. "You gonna be okay with those two? Don't need a hand?"
"Nah, we should be fine. What's next for you, Tugger? Any plans once school ends and summer begins?"
I shrugged. "I'm gonna take the training wheels off my bike," I told him. "And I was planning on learning to swim. I'm getting tired of wearing water wings."
He nodded. "Sounds like a plan. Give me call if you want to help solve some crimes. Where you off to now, Tugger?"
"Home. I'd like to finish reading Lord of the Rings. Frodo just kissed Samwise and I want to know what happens next."
I walked off into the night. Leaving the boys in blue to do their work.
Headed home. Alone. As loners like myself are wont to do.