Page 29 of Caged Hunger

Just as he was about to pull open the door, his phone began to ring.

He fished it out and answered.

“Yeah?”

“Hey, it’s Marcus.”

“Oh, hey, boss, what’s up?”

“I’m pulling you off security tonight. I got a special job I want your help with today.”

“Sure thing, boss. What kind of job?”

“The kind that tends to get a bit messy. You might want to bring a spare shirt and whatever hardware you're most comfortable using,” Marcus added.

Hardware was code for bring your favorite weapon. And there was only one weapon that Basher enjoyed using.

He hung up the phone and went to the closet to retrieve his hardware.

There she was.

Resting silently in the corner, waiting patiently to make her New Mexico debut—his trusty aluminum bat. Arlene.

God, she brought back memories.

Basher wrapped his hand around the neck of his little baby and pulled her from the closet. He ran his fingers over the smooth surface, caressing her curves as he reunited himself with his old friend.

He and his baby had been through a lot together. He still remembered the first time he used Arlene to teach some assholes a lesson.

It was the summer he turned fourteen. By then, he had already gone through four foster homes, and it didn’t seem like he was slowing down anytime soon.

The fire in his belly burned strong, and it seemed like the more he talked to people, the more he wanted to punch them in the face. People just aggravated him.

It was midafternoon, and he and a few of the other kids in his class were at the public baseball field, smacking around a few balls.

There were only four of them on the field, so they weren’t playing with any real rules or anything. They basically took turns up at bat to see who could hit the ball the farthest.

“Throw the ball properly, Barry, or I’ll come out there and knock your fuckin’ teeth in,” Tobias threatened.

At that time, Basher went by Tobias—Tobby if he was feeling friendly with someone. But he had gone by Basher for so long, it almost felt criminal to use his birth name, even in memory.

“Don’t make threats you can’t keep,” Barry, the pitcher, shouted, winding up to throw the ball, then letting it fly across what should have been home plate.

Crack!

The aluminum connected perfectly with the ball, sending the leather sphere flying over the fence and into the parking lot.

Basher began to chuckle. “Eat that, shit for brains.”

A clap behind him caught his attention.

A group of seven or eight boys approached him, each of them at least a head taller than Basher. Judging by their size and the smug grins plastered across their faces, they were several years older and clearly looking for trouble.

“Looks like someone thinks he’s king shit,” the biggest boy sneered as he strode up to Basher and stopped mere inches from his face.

“Oh shit,” Barry whispered from somewhere behind him.

Basher wasn’t surprised. Barry had always been the type to fold at the first sign of trouble, and the sight of a group of older boys looking for a fight was enough to make him shrink into the background.