Books are cumbersome, aren't they? The thought came to me as I pushed a cart with about five of them sitting at the bottom with a variety of clothes, food, and a laptop. What brought this to mind was a gift card hanging on the rack near the checkout lane. A card for a familiar audiobook company. Wouldn't I be able to listen to the book whenever I was walking? And certainly, I'd be walking a lot. I thought about it for a moment. While I enjoyed the aesthetic of having a full library of mysterious tomes, I had to think practically, perhaps in the future when the world was better situated. I grab 200 dollars worth of cards and turn around. It was busy today, and I didn't want to burden the employees with the chore of dragging the few books I had chosen back all the way across the store when I could just as easily do it.
Scores of people scurry through the aisles; mostly looking for food, but also toilet paper, hand sanitizer, and a variety of other things that one might need to stock up on. Many people were wearing masks again. It was like the beginning days of the pandemic once again. With the announcement from the President the other day I'm sure that was on everyone's mind. Another lockdown of some sort. Another wave of shortages. Unfortunately, the situation would be much, much worse.
I return to the book aisle. Most of the books on the shelves were works of fiction. The only mythology/folklore books I could find were books about Christianity. I had chosen a Bible and a few other books with titles that piqued my interest. I really wish there was a bookstore in town. Most of the books in my collection at my parent's house had come from yard sales or from the dumpster behind the library.
As I slide them back into their places I hear the sharp cry of a child in the aisle next to mine; the electronic's aisle. This was followed shortly by a series of loud slaps. The child cried all the louder. Another slap. I let go of my cart and take a peek.
"Shut up, Dylan."
A man with a tan complexion, wearing a white tank top, with thick dark arm hairs and tattoos up and down his exposed, well-sculpted biceps grabbed the small boy walking alongside his booze-filled shopping cart by the cheeks and squeezed them hard. The little boy let out a little cry, and the man cocked his arm back and slapped him hard against the face.
All around people were looking and shaking their heads, but not one moved to stop it. I had to do something. The man had raised his hand again for another strike.
"Hey, asshole," I call from behind him and at the end of the aisle.
"Who the fuck." He turned.
His dark eyes glowered at me.
"The fuck you want, fatass?"
"To stop being an asshole. What kind of man hits a kid like that?"
"Stay out of our business, bitch."
"No," I answer. "You stop being a bitch." I retort.
The boy had retreated and was hiding behind the shopping cart; his small, trembling fingers grabbing hold of the rings of the cart.
The man steps forward and strides toward me across the aisle.
"You just called me a bitch?"
He looks me up and down and stops a few feet away. Tattoos line his face as well. Various numbers, flowers, and a cross or two. He sways where he stands like a snake warning off a predator.
"Oh wow, you can hear."
I do not balk. I return his hate-filled gaze tenfold and sarcastically clap. The man steps forward.
"Say that to my face, pig."
He presses his nose against mine. I smell the heady stench of alcohol and marijuana oozing off of him.
"I don't think I could stoop that low," I respond.
I do not back down. Does he think he could intimidate me? How close have I been to death in the last week alone? He eyes the scars on my face, and I sense a bit of hesitation in him before he lunges forward with a headbutt.
I had predicted that, however, and I lower my head so that my forehead could absorb the blow. After that, I slam my fist into his gut and grab him by the back of the neck in a Thai clench. He tries to pull away and throws a few hooks into my side. Perhaps he had some experience in brawling but to me? They felt like a child trying to beat up an adult. I throw a knee into his solar plexus, and he reels backward.
I let go of him and let him fall to the floor. He reaches for his waistband, and I catch the glint of steel flash before a loud roar erupts from his hand, and a wave of pain blossoms from my upper left arm. I say pain, but perhaps one of my passives was suppressing it, or perhaps I've become too accustomed to it. It was more like heat than pain. There was a slight discomfort to it, but it wasn't debilitating. Like a rather large flea had decided to bite. The people who had been watching scatter.
I stomp on the hand that held the revolver before he could fire another shot. I hear the bones in his wrist snap like twigs. Did he try to take my life? Mine? How stupid. I had survived ordeals that would leave men broken. The stinging from the bullet was nothing compared to the arrows of the Dogmen, the blades of the Ratmen, or the spike that had been lodged in my face. Something like that wasn't enough to kill me. He should have aimed for my head. I kneel down and slam my right fist into his face. The tiles beneath his head splinters into a crack at the force.
"I'm... I'm schorry." He says as frothing foamy blood oozes from his shattered jaw.
"By the light of Yahweh," I mutter, "the god of gods, and king of kings." The wound on my shoulder closes up. I can still feel the bullet lodged in there, however.
"Are you a superhero?" The boy still clinging to the shopping cart asked.
"No," I answer with a laugh.
Maybe I am. Though, I probably couldn't compare to Shawn. A serious punch from him probably could level the entire building. What kind of strength did he have, I wonder? What kind of strength was required to break the sound barrier? Did the doors move us from humanity that much? And it had only been a couple of weeks. In a month, what kind of monster would I be?