I'd always suspected that Freddie was a little off-balance. Everyone else seemed to accept it, but I, having only lived in town for a year or so, was constantly confused by his actions. He was an angry guy; his brow was always furrowed, his fists clenched, his eyes twitching around. He was picked on a lot as a kid (or so I was told), and even now was occasionally hassled, but not often. He had finally adopted his familiar glare because if he seemed less approachable, more violent-looking, people would stop screwing with him all the time, or so was the theory among the three other guys. I'd moved in a year ago, but Ian, Dale, and Chris had all grown up in the town, and all knew each other and Freddie for as long as they could remember. Normally, I haven't been known to become good friends with four people within a year, but I immediately clicked with Dale, and the rest immediately followed.

Freddie, on the other hand, didn't seem to fit. Of course, none of us really fit in anywhere in the social scheme, but Freddie was on a whole other level of awkwardness. Freddie lived with his dad, who was one hell of a drunk. I'd never really seen it, but supposedly he'd come home smashed out of his skull, usually on Friday nights. I was surprised when Dale told me, not because he didn't hold back (Which he never did), but because Freddie's dad just didn't seem like your classic face-in-the-gutter drunk. He ran a successful motorcycle business of some kind, and had quite a few friends in the community. Of course, he wasn't exactly Ward Cleaver either. He was a big, gruff guy with a thin beard and a kind of emotional relationship with his pickup truck. I realize now the kind of trash Freddie was up against, but the presence of drunks wasn't something I was very used to at the time. The other guys, as with all other things, took it in stride.

"I remember seeing him passed out in the backyard when I was a kid," Dale was saying one Friday afternoon on the bus.

"I'd come over to Freddie's place to play and I'd see his old man comatose in the hammock out back, with an empty case of Budweiser in the grass. It was hilarious."

I looked at Freddie. He was staring out the window, giving no response. He didn't respond to very much at all. Chris, who was sitting behind me, was the slightly more compassionate one of the group.

"At least he was never abusive or anything," he said. "I mean, he always drank a lot, but he never really attacked Freddie or anything."

"He probably has," said Dale, slapping Freddie on the shoulder. "He's probably knocked ya' around a little, right, Fred?" Freddie glanced at him, irritated.

"No."

"Sure," said Dale, grinning. He'd tease Freddie about stuff all the time (he'd tease us too, but Freddie mostly). No one ever really got mad at him. The four of them had known each other for so long that they could joke about pretty much anything together. I entered the new highschool as a shy, detached sophomore, but I'd clicked with Dale from the start. He just had a great way of simplifying complicated crap. That was Dale's job in the group - to let off the pressure of everyday life. And he loved his job.

"I tell you what, Fred," continued Dale ruthlessly. "If you were my kid and I was also a filthy drunk like your old man I'd knock your teeth out any chance I got. You're just not living up to my standard of manhood."

"Shut up," muttered Freddie, trying not to be entertained.

"I'd teach you how to box and call you a faggot when you went to sleepovers with guys, then, for the finale, I'd molest you into manhood on your 16th birthday. "

Chris laughed. "You pederass! Shut up!"

"Well what better way to show him how much I hate fags than by giving him an old-fashioned ass ramming? Isn't that how parents do it nowadays?"

"You're thinking of the football team," said Ian.

Dale laughed, snorting cigarette smoke out his nose. "Ah, yes; the 'ol locker room hazing routine. Now that's masculine!"

I wasn't very involved in the conversation, as usual, because I was too busy listening and enjoying myself. I was just along for the ride.

"Alright, here's one," said Chris, raising his hands for silence. "What would you consider the most important goal in life to be?"

Ian looked up from the automotive magazine in his hands. "Where the hell did that come from?"

"I've got to take a poll for Sociology," answered Chris, motioning to his notebook. "Come on, give me some data."

I considered it, but Dale, as usual, was the first to speak up.

"Fame," he said. "At least to me, fame is the number-one goal." I looked at him curiously.

"How come?"

"Well it's like this," he continued smoothly, as if he already had everything thought out. All of Dale's anecdotes sounded like he'd written and memorized them the night before. "People are insignificant. I mean a person - one person - is pretty worthless in the big scheme of things." We all agreed. He definitely had a point there. "Well, if a kid off in... I don't know... Estonia is born, up in the mountains, no one outside of his immediate family knows. No one knows when he grows up, or when he gets married, or when he dies. He's worthless to the rest of the world."

"Uh huh," said Chris, already bored with Dale's involved explanation.

"Well if this guy was famous, if he made movies or if he led some revolution or if he became a serial killer or whatever, and he became a celebrity, then he also becomes important in the big scheme."

"Like how?" asked Ian.

"Well if he's famous then he's influential, right? People everywhere know about him and talk about him and write down his name and discuss his life. Then even after he dies, he keeps on influencing everything, because people read about him and keep talking about him. He just goes on changing the world forever."

"Footprint in the mud?" said Chris tiredly, summing up Dale's whole philosophy in four words.

"Yeah, that's right," Dale continued. "He'll have left his footprint in the mud, as they say. Your life is never really important to the world unless the world is aware of your existence."

"That's probably the most meaningless philosophy I've ever heard," said Chris. "It was just awful."

"Well, that's your opinion, Christian."

Chris twitched. He hated being called by his full name. He turned to Ian. "What about you?"

Ian thought for a second, before answering in his usual calm, dry, expressionless and completely unenthusiastic tone. "Contentment, I guess."

"Contentment?"

"Yeah. Try to be as content as you can for as much of your life as possible. My goal in life is to lie on my death bed, look back at all my years, and decide that I haven't wasted them all."

"That's not bad," said Chris.

"So all you want out of life is to not have it be shitty?" asked Dale.

"That'll be just fine," replied Ian, returning his eyes to the magazine.

Dale flicked his ashes onto the aisle floor. "Well Ian, I think your life goal should be to not tell anymore people your shitty life goals." Everyone laughed.

Ian looked up at him from beneath his brow, smiling faintly.

"I hope you smoke yourself to death."

Dale took a long drag, blowing the smoke out in a long, swirling mist.

"Way ahead of ya, pal."

The bus arrived at our stop then, and we lumbered off. Freddie and Ian walked west, while Chris walked north, and Dale and I walked to the east. Our five houses were all in generally different directions from each other, but surprisingly, weren't very far apart. I really should have appreciated how lucky it was that I had moved into that area and gotten the same bus stop with those four guys, because if I hadn't, who knew where I'd be and who I'd be hanging around with? I just didn't think about that kind of thing back then. I was just a kid.

Later that afternoon Dale called me and said we were going to a movie. I don't remember which one. I hung up the phone and walked over to Freddie's house, which was always the Point of Gathering where we five would meet and drive to the theater. Freddie's place was the only one with a wide driveway and a parent who just didn't give a damn who came and went, so it was logically the best place to do our business.

When I got there, I noticed Ian's car wasn't in the driveway yet. I thought about just waiting on Freddie's front porch until someone else arrived (I didn't enjoy going into his place alone), but as I came near the door, Freddie's dad came walking out of the house.

"He's in his room," he barked at me, without even giving a glance in my general direction. Then he walked on past to the driveway and began working under the hood of his pickup truck, cursing like a sailor. I went inside. Freddie's door was closed. The familiar Aerosmith poster was scotch taped to the wood (as it had been for years), but that would be the only visible clue that Freddie had any hint of culture in him whatsoever. I knocked, was ordered to "come in," and opened the door to a blank white room, with an unpolished dresser in one corner and Freddie on his bed in the other. He was sitting on the mattress with his back against the wall, and a nail gun in his hand. He was currently taking careful aim at a crude target that had been drawn on his wall with pencil. That target had been there for as long as I could remember, though it had just occurred to me that I really hadn't been in Freddie's room more than once or twice before. We always met in the basement, cause his dad rarely went down there. The bullseye, though over ten feet away, was filled with nails that had been fired with an unusually high level of precision. He shot one more as I entered, and it took its place among the others in the center of the target.

"Nice shot," I said.

"Thanks. Could you lock the door?" He shot off three more within a second, landing them all inside the quarter-sized bullseye. Then he held out the gun to me. "Wanna take a shot?"

"No, that's alright," I said, not really wanting to touch it for some reason.

"Okay." He stared at it a moment before placing it next to the shoebox of nails on his nightstand. Dale often made jokes about the nail gun, in which he'd bring up the curious question of why Freddie would play with a nail gun instead of an air gun or dart gun like a normal human being. Freddie would just say it was his dad's and he fired it into the wall just for the hell of it, which, though probably true, sort of lacked an answer to Dale's question. I looked again at all those nails in the bullseye... damn, he had gotten good with that thing. Especially since a nail gun wasn't the easiest thing in the world to aim from ten feet away.

"Is Ian here?" he asked, staring blankly at his shoes.

"No."

"Okay."

I wished he was there. Freddie clicked pretty well with the quiet but confident Ian, unlike me, who said anything on my mind to break awkward silences and wouldn't even touch his nail gun.

"So," I said, leaning casually against the dresser. "What's going on?"

"Nothing."

Sure. Nothing. I couldn't figure out why I always felt so awkward when I was alone with Freddie. I didn't feel awkward when the other guys were around, just at times like this. Where the hell was Ian? Suddenly, I spotted a dark, black line across Freddie's neck.

"What's that?" I asked him, breaking the silence.

"What?"

"That. On your neck - that big black line."

"Oh," he said, rubbing the spot it irritably. "You know that dick - Matt?"

"Matt who?" I asked, knowing very well which Matt he was talking about.

"Matt... whatzizname..." said Freddie, feigning casual indifference.

"Matt Choskey... you know, Khaki Boy." Dale's name for Choskey. He called him Khaki Boy because nobody had ever seen the asshole wear anything else since middle school. I heard he wore khakis to his grandfather's funeral.

"Oh yeah," I confirmed. "Choskey."

"Yeah," said Freddie. He picked up a nail from his dresser and began to fiddle with it in his hand. "Well, he drew on the back of my neck during English. I grabbed the pen and threw it at him, but of course I missed. Why does everyone find that prick so funny? Why would anyone? He's just a big asshole."

I nodded dumbly, not really sure what to say.

"I shoulda punched him, man..." muttered Freddie, the image appearing before his eyes. "I shoulda turned around, reeled back and knocked the shit out've him. Right in front of that class..." He said the word with contempt, as if the class as a whole was his enemy. "That woulda made him... I mean, I shoulda... next time, I'll..."

He trailed off hopelessly. He looked down at the nail that he was fiddling with, and began to scrape it across his arm rhythmically, making long, white marks.

"Assholes like Choskey should be shot in the face." he muttered to no one in particular. "I hope he dies."

Freddie was always saying, 'I hope so-and-so dies' and 'so-and-so should be shot in the face.' I'd been desensitized to it for a long time. It was just the way he talked. Chris used to say that since Freddie didn't have anyone to listen to him, like a normal parent, or brothers or sisters or anything, he'd exaggerate all his words to try and show whoever happened to be listening what was on his mind. Dale said Freddie was just nuts.

"Why doesn't someone shoot him?" Freddie was saying.

"Who?"

"Choskey. You'd think after being a prick to so many people, he would've pissed off at least one unbalanced person by now. I mean... damn, there's gotta be at least one unbalanced guy for every hundred or so normals."

"So you feel, based on statistics, Matt should've been murdered by now?"

"Yeah," said Freddie, missing my attempt at humor. He accidentally dropped the nail he was fiddling with, and it fell somewhere among the sheets. Instead of looking for it, Freddie grabbed another one out of the big-ass box on his nightstand and continued his nervous twitching. "Dicks like Matt," he went on.

"They never learn their lesson. They just have to keep on screwing with people 'till one day, they push the wrong guy over the edge. Dicks like him can't be changed. Someone has to stop them."

My mind had started to wander off by itself. I was currently looking at Freddie's sheets, wondering how many nails he slept with every night. He just fiddles with those damn nails 'till he drops them, and then doesn't bother to pick them up. He just sleeps on more and more nails every night. I suddenly had the urge to make his bed. I've never, before or since then, had an urge to make another man's bed. It was a frightening moment. I tried to think about something else.

"He drinks all the time," Freddie continued, his eyes moving to the target on the wall. "I hear him talking with his stupid-ass friends every Monday morning about how he got wasted over the weekend. I guess that makes him cool. He's a real cool fuckin drunk."

As if on cue, Freddie's dad pounded on the door, scaring the hell out of me.

"Fred! Where's the goddam monkey wrench?"

"I don't know."

"Where the hell is it? Open the door!"

Freddie's face turned red.

"Go away!"

"Open this goddam door, kid!"

Freddie yelled at the top of his lungs, rattling my skull: "I don't have your goddam monkey wrench! GO AWAY!"

His dad muttered another string of obscenities and stomped off down the hall. Freddie glared at the door for a minute, before suddenly snatching the nail gun from the nightstand and firing off four shots at the target in half a second.

thwap-thwap-thwap-thwap

Damn, he was a good shot.

"Freddie!" yelled someone from outside his bedroom window. "Yo, Fred-die!"

I looked out, and saw Dale standing with Chris by the side of the house. I waved. They waved back and walked back to the driveway where Ian's car was finally parked.

"They're here," I said to Freddie, as if he didn't know already. He was still staring at the target, the nail gun sitting loosely in his hand. Finally, when his face had returned to its normal color, he put it back on the nightstand and stood up.

"Let me get my jacket."

A half-hour later, Chris, Dale, and I were stepping out of Ian's car onto the sidewalk that bordered the front of the movie theater. Freddie stayed in the car with Ian as they drove off to find a parking space. We had initially begun this custom because the theater was so packed on Fridays that if all of us waited in the car till it parked and then walked up to the ticket booth, sometimes the movie would be sold out. Ian and Freddie pulled away, and we three were left to buy the tickets. All eyes went to Chris.

"Go buy em," said Dale sharply, as if Chris was to blame for us standing like idiots in the cold evening air.

"No," snapped Chris. "I bought the tickets last time, and you have yet to pay me back."

"I'll pay you back next time. Go"

"No."

I groaned. "C'mon, Chris, just go. We'll pay you back tomorrow. Right, Dale?"

Dale was lighting a cigarette in his mouth. "Mm-hm."

"Whatever, dickheads..." muttered Chris, taking out his wallet and advancing through the smoky crowd to the ticket booth. Dale laughed.

"God, what a Jew."

Dale wasn't prejudiced, but you'd never know it from just talking to him once or twice.

"Hey, you know that kid, Matt Choskey?" I asked all of a sudden.

"Yeah, Khaki Boy. What about him?" answered Dale. I was suddenly aware that I had mentioned the kid without having anything specific to say about him. I threw something out.

"Do you think anyone would care if he died?"

"Nah," responded Dale casually. "I mean, his mom might, right at first, but I doubt if even she really likes him." There was a silence. I threw something else out.

"Isn't he an asshole?"

"He's just sad, man," continued Dale as if there had been no pause in the conversation. "He's just some ex-benchwarmer who tried to go thug but it didn't take. fucknuts like him are a dime a dozen, as they say."

"Freddie hates him," I said, once again for no reason I could think of.

"Freddie hates lots of people," said Dale, the cigarette smoke mixing with the steam from his mouth. "No surprise that he hates Khaki Boy too. I know that guy screws with him all the time." He looked around impatiently. "Where the hell is Chris?"

"He's still in line," I replied, watching Chris fidget uneasily as he stood, shivering, among the other teens.

Dale glanced at him, and shook his head disapprovingly. "That kid's a sloth when it comes to doing something simple, like buying tickets. He could think his way out of the inside of a Rubics Cube, but he gets flustered if he has to stand in a crowd for two minutes.
"
"Does he hate Choskey?"

Dale turned to me, looking quizzical. "What's with your hard-on for Khaki Boy today?"

"I don't know," I said. I honestly didn't. "I was just wondering... do you think Freddie could take that guy?"

Dale blinked. "What, you mean in a fight?"

"Yeah."

Dale's eyes wandered off, and for once he actually looked deep in thought. He took a long drag off his cigarette. "Yeah, I'd say so."

His answer surprised me. I wasn't expecting that at all.

"You think?"

"Oh, sure," said Dale. "He's pretty well built, if you actually look at him. You usually can't tell, though, cause he wears those loose-ass shirts."

Freddie was pretty strong, I guessed. He was built like his dad. That wasn't really what I meant, though.

"Problem is," continued Dale. "Freddie always backs down. The kid can't handle confrontation."

"He doesn't like to fight?"

Dale snorted. "Oh, he wants to fight. He just can't. He won't let himself. It's like Chris says, he's a... what'd he say? Passive aggressive, that's it. The kid's a tinderbox waiting to go off."

I was surprised. I'd never heard Dale quote Chris before. He usually shrugged of Chris' psychiatric classifications of everyone as quackery.

"I'm sorta like that too, I think," I said. "I never really want to fight, even though I know I should sometimes."

Dale exhaled a large puff of smoke.

"Anybody who wants to fight doesn't deserve to live among us normals." I looked at him oddly. Just a week ago he'd punched some Junior for spitting on his shoes. He read my expression. "What I mean is, it's not natural to just pick fights with people. People who start trouble they can't finish piss me off." I nodded. Spitting on someone was definitely a first assault.

"So you think Freddie's dangerous?" I asked.

"I don't know. All I'm saying is that one of these days his fear'll run out, and I don't want to be there to have to pull him off the sorry bastard who ignites him, cause I'll be losing some teeth trying to break it up." He took another drag.

"I feel heartfelt sorrow for that poor bastard, I tell you that much."

There was a long silence. We stood, watching the parking lot in front of us for any sign of Ian and Freddie. I skimmed the posters along the theater wall.

"I guess every man has his breaking point, huh?" I said, reading the tag line off some Arnold Shwartzenegger poster. Dale looked at me like I was an idiot, before noticing the poster and laughing, choking on the smoke in his lungs.

"Whose idea was it to have an Austrian terminator, anyway?" He said when he'd caught his breath. Suddenly, Ian and Freddie appeared beside us.

"Got the tickets?"

Dale's expression froze. He looked at Freddie.

"Za tickets are on dere vay."

Freddie looked back at him, his brow furrowed.

"What?"

We saw some piece of crap comedy that night, and since it was the last show of the day, we got out at around 1:30 in the morning. The suburbs are strange when it's that late out. Nobody's ever around, not even on the highway. Just about the only people on the road besides us were the cops, all of which eyed us suspiciously. It sort of made you feel important, like everything depended on what you were doing at that exact moment. Maybe the cities never sleep, but the 'burbs sure as hell do.

Ian's car was a small, white, coffin of a vehicle that only had two doors, which were supposed to accommodate not only Ian and Freddie, who were sitting in the front, but also Chris, Dale and me, who were crammed into the backseat together like sardines. Dale would often complain about the size of Ian's car, always ready to shrug and mutter, "Hey, I'm not rich," when Ian would ask him why he doesn't go buy one for himself.

Currently, though, Dale was explaining his latest theory on women.

"Y'see, girls are like scales. Not a bathroom scale, I mean like one of those balances, like a teeter-totter. That's what they're like."

Chris chuckled. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Let's say on one end of the scale you have intelligence. You know, knowledge, interest, awareness, all that. But on the other side, you have beauty. When beauty goes up, intelligence goes down, and vice-versa. That's why a perfect female is basically impossible to come by."

"Bull," said Chris. He'd do anything to prove Dale wrong.

"Haven't you seen Jerry Springer? There's tons of ugly and stupid women on there all the time." Dale was quick with a response.

"Well gravity works against the scale. Sure, sometimes the scale breaks and both sides come crashing down. Maybe that even happens fairly often. But both sides are never up! I've never seen a scale do that when it breaks!"

"There's intelligent, attractive women in the world," said Chris. "In fact, I know there are."

"Yeah," I agreed. "I think your scale theory is wrong."

Dale shook his head. "Maybe there are women like that (I'm not saying there are, because I've never seen one), but if there are, then they're freaks of nature. The Scale Theory is sound."

They kept arguing for a while, but I didn't hear, because I was watching Freddie. He was in the front passenger seat, and he was looking out the window. In fact, he was glaring out the window. I looked, but I couldn't see anything. My window was all fogged up. Freddie just kept on glaring blankly out the window as we drove, totally oblivious to anything that was being said around him.

We came to a red light, and stopped. It must have been 1 or 2 in the morning, so the street we were on was disserted. Chris was citing specific examples of what he considered to be intelligent, attractive girls at our school, and Dale was shooting them down left and right. Never have I seen two people argue so much but get so little resolved. Ian was working the radio, occasionally smiling at things Dale said. I seemed to be the only one who noticed Freddie's unsettling expression as he looked out the window. Or maybe I was the only one who cared.

Finally, Freddie turned away from the window. I was secretly relieved for some reason, and regained listening to the ludicrous but hilarious conversation Dale and Chris were having.

"What about Melissa?"

"Melissa who?"

"I don't know her last name... you know who I'm talking about. The one with the short, blond hair..."

"Oh, you mean the one with the green backpack?"

"Yeah. She's smart."

"She doesn't know who Adam Sandler is. She's a moron."

Suddenly, Freddie's door burst open and a pair of arms grabbed his jacket, ripping him from his seat. I turned, startled beyond awareness, as Freddie was pulled into the street and thrown against the car pulled up next to us - a black low rider with gold rims.

It was Choskey's. There were three of them total, and they beat Freddie against the side of Matt's car as he swung out blindly, not even sure of what was happening yet. I began to unfasten my seatbelt. I called to Ian, but when I turned toward the driver's seat I realized he was already out of the car.

"What the hell?" yelled Dale. He leaned across the stunned Chris and opened the door. I pushed the passenger seat forward, struggling to get out of the two-door automobile. Dale did the same on the other side. As I got out, I saw Ian shove two of the guys off and throw Choskey to the ground. He helped up Freddie and pushed him back, away from his attackers. Choskey got to his feet, swearing. His two friends were standing stiffly, watching Chris, Dale and me appear from the car - three more people than they had thought they were dealing with. The two of them looked pretty nervous.

"Get out of here," growled Ian, glaring down at Choskey, who, though tall, was still a good two inches shorter than him - not much in the long run, but a couple extra inches looks like a lot more when it's peering down at you furiously. Choskey wasn't fazed, though.
"I'm not leaving till that pussy over there explains himself."

Freddie looked up, shivering. Ian kept his eyes on Choskey.

"There's nothing to explain," he said coldly. "Leave."

Dale tapped my arm as he walked forward, signaling for me to do the same. Chris, Dale and I approached the enemy, stopping next to Ian to form a rough battle line. I tried to look as threatening as I could, but inside I felt nauseous - as opposed to Dale, who was grinning eagerly. I grinned too, despite the collapsing of my nerves. It must have worked on some level, because Choskey's two pals stepped back uneasily.

"Hey Matt, let's just go," said the blond one casually. The brown-haired one agreed. "Yeah, let's beat it. These cunts ain't worth it." They were doing their best to retreat without sounding like it.

"Aren't you gonna do anything?" asked Choskey, peering at Freddie menacingly. I couldn't see Freddie's face. "Goddamit you pussy, don't stare at me through the window like your tough if you're not gonna do anything. I'll beat the shit outta you, kid!" He walked up and shoved Freddie, who hit a headlight. Suddenly, Freddie charged. Choskey saw it coming at the last second, and hit Freddie hard, but it had no effect. The two became tangled, and they fell to the ground roughly, with Choskey on top. He hit Freddie again and again, while the poor kid beneath him kicked and swung out like a rabid animal. Choskey's pals began to move forward, but Ian and Dale countered them, so that the two of them and the three of us together formed a rough circle around the violent mass on the ground. Everyone watched.

"C'mon, Matt!" yelled the brown-haired kid as Freddie began to gain leverage. I finally noticed how strong Freddie really was. He was overpowering Choskey. Freddie managed to get to his knees, where he began swinging down at Choskey's head with his right fist, connecting once, twice, three times, four times, until Khaki Boy managed to get hold of his jacket and pull him over, so he was on top again.

"Knee him!" shrieked Chris suddenly, and Freddie brought his leg up to Choskey's crotch, who collapsed, his face hitting the street. Freddie struggled halfway out from under him, and not able to get the adequate leverage for a full swing, began to elbow Choskey on the side of his head, hitting him in the jaw and the ear. I was awestruck. The fight had gone past the point of being tense and frightening to the point where I was actually shaking with energy, watching Freddie's every move, shouting to him with the others.

"Hit him, Fred!"

Freddie did as he was told, though I doubt if he actually heard anything that was going on around him. His face was flushed and bleeding - his teeth were clenched and his eyes were fierce, crazed with the drive to defeat his opponent at all cost. I began to wonder if what Dale had said was true, if Freddie would kill the kid if he wasn't stopped.

The two animals rolled over and over each other, desperately trying to get the advantage, though they were both clearly winded. They rolled off to the side of the street, where they stopped at the edge of a huge drainage ditch, which was beginning to fill up with water from the rain. Freddie ended up on top again, and he bore down on Choskey's ape-like face, this time with both fists. Left-right-left-right, he ground the ex-benchwarmer's head into the dirt. We were jumping like idiots, yelling stuff that didn't even make sense, anything to somehow help Freddie to win. Choskey's arms were up over his face, trying hopelessly to block Freddie's blows. Finally he grabbed hold of Freddie's throat and began to squeeze, slowly bending him backwards. Freddie continued to lash out, but I'm not sure how much more damage could be done to Matt Choskey's face. It was an ocean of blood - his nose was crushed and his eyes were swollen and dark pink. His gums were bleeding too, turning his teeth a sick shade of red, which spilled out over his cut lip and down his chin as he squeezed Freddie's neck furiously. We three and the two Khaki Boys were circling the fight now, bending and twisting with the action. The Earth disappeared and we were standing on a chunk of muddy earth, floating in space, the rain shooting in from all directions, watching and screaming as the apocalyptic battle unfold before us. Good and evil, darkness and light, it didn't matter now. We wanted Freddie to win. We needed him to win. We shrieked to be heard over the other two guys, following Freddie's fists with our eyes. We were witnessing the confrontation of a lifetime. One person's lifetime.

Freddie's spine was arched back, as Choskey slowly choked the life out of him. Freddie, gathering all the energy he had left, reeled back and hit Matt in the mouth, his knuckles striking sharply against two rows of clenched teeth. Choskey's grip broke at last, and he fell backward, pinned down by the pain of three incisors and two canines being ripped from his gums. Freddie lay back for a moment, the rain falling hard on his face, washing the blood from his eyes. He was breathing like a dying dog, gulping air desperately, trying to keep himself from blacking out. Gradually he lifted himself to his knees, and sat, still breathing, staring down at the wet pavement. We five spectators stood quietly, watching to see what was next. Was it really over? Could something like that actually end? We watched. Freddie lifted a knee, and began to heave himself up into a standing position. That was the definitive answer, right? Who was left standing at the end of the battle? Ian went to help Freddie to his feet, but he was waved away. Freddie got his other foot down and rose, steadying himself uneasily. The rain turned to a drizzle. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the blond-haired kid flinch, and I looked down at Choskey, just in time to watch him arch a large chunk of cement in his fist at Freddie, who was just turning around. The concrete hit Freddie's face hard, splitting his eyebrow like a chisel. The chunk shattered on impact, and the pieces fell, with Freddie, to the ground where they sank into the blood-soaked mud. Before we could respond, Choskey had another chunk of road in his hand, and lifted it high over Freddie, meaning to strike again, and even again if he got the opportunity. Freddie squirmed, his hands buried in the flaps of his jacket. He suddenly kicked out with his foot, hitting Choskey in the chest, knocking the weapon from his hand, and he fell backward. In the next second, Freddie was on top of Choskey, his arm extended, pushing Matt's head to the ground. In Freddie's hand was the nail gun. The Earth suddenly came back into view, and the rain disappeared. There was no wind - the world grew silent. Freddie's chest was heaving, his jaw twitching, blood streaming down his face. He had the nail gun pressed firmly against Matt's forehead, right between the eyes. Choskey stared up at him, frozen.

Chris took a step forward.

"Freddie?"

The rest of us watched silently, not daring to move a muscle, as if carelessly dropping a foot would set of the landmine in front of us. Freddie looked down menacingly at Choskey, a bloody gargoyle with its weapon at the victim's head. They remained like that for a long time. Their eyes were locked.

"I'm gonna kill you..." muttered Freddie deeply, almost a whisper. We shifted uneasily. Choskey stared back up at him. His eyes gleamed under the dim street light.

"No, man... listen..."

"You fucking drunk," continued Freddie, his voice a terrible growl. "You can't leave us alone. You can't just go away. You gotta be stopped..."

"I'll go," sputtered Choskey. "I'll leave right now, okay?. I don't want any trouble..."

Freddie continued to stare down at him mercilessly. We waited. Finally, he spoke.

"I want you to tell me you're a worthless human being." Matt shook. "What?"

Freddie's eyes glittered. His hand squeezed the nail gun.

"I'm a worthless human being," said Matt quickly.

"I don't get you at all, Choskey," said Freddie. "How is it you've gotten this far alive? You should've been murdered by now, statistically." I felt a lump grow in my throat.

"Dude, just calm down, okay?" said Matt, his voice quivering.

"You fucking drunk," continued Freddie, his voice a terrible growl. "You can't just leave anything alone. You'll keep going till you get a kid, then you'll fuck him up just like you." Matt stared. His mouth was sort of moving, but he wasn't making any sound. Nothing was.

"I'm gonna kill you, Choskey."

The air went cold.

"Because you make me feel like I can't feel a goddam thing," Matt's eyes glittered and he shut them tightly.

"And only a nail through your head will stop you from making me feel like my life's not worth it."

A single tear of absolute terror rolled down Matt's cheek.

Freddie's eyes widened - he followed the tear down Choskey's chin and to the street, where it mixed with the rain water. He smiled - very faintly - he smiled. Freddie finally rose then, sliding the nail gun back into his inner-breast pocket. He watched Choskey lying on the ground with his huge hands clamped up over his face. We all were staring at him, especially Dale, who for the first time didn't have anything to say. Freddie turned and opened the door of Ian's car, getting into the back seat. Chris and I, and eventually Dale, followed him.

"You'd better get your friend to a hospital," said Ian to Choskey's pals. They were staring down at the defeated boy, awestruck. Ian waved his hand, trying to get their attention.

"Hey!"

They turned, blinking stupidly.

"Huh?"

"Get him to a hospital. Tell them he fell."

They nodded slowly. Who knows if they were even sure of what he was saying. Ian shook his head and started the engine.

We rode in silence for a long time. I was trying to stare straight ahead, focusing on the back of the seat in front of me. Chris was sitting there now - he had taken shotgun when Freddie offered himself to the backseat. I noticed Dale also staring, but with a faint look of humor on his face. Freddie, who was sitting between the two of us, was staring calmly out the windshield, following the rhythmic flashing of the street lights. His face, though a mess held an odd expression of tranquillity that I'd never seen before. I couldn't help looking at him. Neither could Dale, who was still quiet, amazingly.

Appropriately, though, it was Dale who finally broke the silence.

"Damn, Freddie... I didn't know you carried that thing around with you all the time."

Freddie smiled. "I forgot about it till he hit me with the rock." When he said this, he felt the gash across his eyebrow, wincing a little at the touch. Suddenly, he started laughing. He looked at us through his puffy eye and swollen nose and laughed. I looked back in a daze, seeing something I'd never seen before. The others apparently hadn't either, because they all stared at him the same way as he laughed for a minute straight.

Dale grinned. "What the hell are you cackling about, Fred?"

Freddie laughed even harder at this, hunching over in his seat. Chris, who was sitting backwards in the front passenger seat began to laugh and so did Ian, who had to slow down because he was having a hard time watching the road. I was laughing too. I had been for a while, I guess, because I could feel my face turning red.

"Why don't you do something, pussy!" yelled Dale. Freddie convulsed with laughter, kicking the seats. I couldn't even catch my breath, and Chris was wheezing like crazy. Dale gasped in air desperately, trying to reel off another comment.

"Hope the... hope the hospital's got a khaki robe he can wear!"

We were roaring. The windows reverberated with the sounds of our maniacal howls. Even now, years later when I think about it, I'm not sure what we were laughing at. There was nothing funny going on. Nothing funny had happened, and there certainly was nothing funny about all the blood on Freddie's shirt. But still, even now, when I think about it I can't help but smile. We pulled up in front of Freddie's house some time later, just as we were starting to calm down a little. Freddie climbed over me clumsily, and stumbled onto his front yard. He was still laughing.

"You sure you don't want to go to the hospital?" asked Ian as Freddie got to his feet. "You'll probably need some stitches."

"Naw," said Freddie, now chuckling in weak bursts. His face had already stopped bleeding, but was beet-red from laughing so hard. "It's just my eyebrow that's cut kinda bad, but it'll heal up."

"You'll have a scar."

Freddie felt his eyebrow. "That's okay. I'm cool."

"Alright," said Ian. "If anyone asks, just tell 'em you got hit a few times by a drunken driver."

Dale leaned forward. "Hey, Fred! Show your dad your manly scars! He don't want no cocksucking faggot for a son!"

Freddie burst into weak laughter again, hunching over to keep from falling down. He motioned for us to drive away. He sort of waved his hand to the side and started walking up the driveway. We waved back and yelled to him that we'd see him tomorrow, in the morning. Finally, Ian hit the gas and the four of us were off. We were still smiling, and occasionally coughing to clear our wounded lungs. Chris, who had a slight case of asthma, was wheezing. I don't think any of us had ever laughed like that before. I never have since. As the car came to the stop sign at the end of the road, I looked out through the back window at Freddie. He stepped up onto his front porch and was starting to open the door when he suddenly paused, and took out the nail gun. Then, just before he disappeared into his house, Freddie spun and threw the gun, arching in beautifully, into an open garbage can by the mailbox. He must've made it from thirty feet away.

Damn, he was a good shot.

[Gloria]

That was great! Well written, awesome description! Keep up the great work!

[Ryankia]

I am *SHOCKED* that this piece has not received more comments than it has. Despite the simplicity of the writing and word choices, this is an amazing story. The character development, the realism, just....everything. That word which one feels after reading a piece which touches them to their core *WOW*.

I only have a few nit picks at this time, but they are easy to catch and even easier to fix. Just need a read through to fix spellings and wrong words which are spelled correctly. Very well done. You have my standing ovation!

[Gurdit]

"Oh," he said, rubbing the spot it irritably. "You know that dick - Matt?"

Why is the "it" there?

fucknuts like him are a dime a dozen, as they say."

Uppercase F?

two minutes.
"

Should probably move that quote mark up there.

cops, all of which eyed us suspiciously.

You probably want to use 'who' or 'whom' here instead of 'which'

the street we were on was disserted.

deserted.

as the apocalyptic battle unfold before us.

At this point of time, I'm so much into the story that I'm ignoring flashes of oranges telling me I have a new message, but I don't want to leave the errors out, I'll be too lazy to come back to them. It should be 'unfolded', I'd say.

And now the good stuff:
This held my attention from start to end. Absolutely fucking brilliant. I'm shocked it's not got more comments. I'm totally not shocked that it's been PICKED.

Do you know what I loved more than anything else?
The laughter. It just fit in absolutely beautifully.

Your flow was superb. There was not a single word extra, nor a word less then required. You deserve a standing ovation for this one. This is brilliant.

EDIT:
Sadly, this user is apparently not registered here.
Also, I hadn't read any other comments before writing mine. I find it very slightly surprising that me and Ryankia have both mentioned a standing ovation, though.

[Razor]

This is really old (as far as this site is concerned) but this is really good.

[Ryankia]

Yes it is old, but Jir threw the link at me and told me to read it. I was just doing as I was told. Lol

Yes, I know the username does not exist and it is because of the age of the site, but perhaps the guy still checks back...you never know ^.~