Poundtown

By William Kitcher

Davey didn’t even bother to say hello to us; he just started pounding on some guy sitting at the next table to us at Dragon’s Bar And No Food. A little unfair if you ask me; Buddy was just sitting there, pounding drinks and amphs, waiting for the usual time of ten o’clock, but Davey had jumped the gun — it looked like he’d already snorted a lot of the new batch of chuzz that had hit town. Not good chuzz though — he didn’t seem really up.

Rules is rules, I say, but I’m from up on the hill originally before I fell, and Davey is from down here by the river. I guess it doesn’t matter since Fast Regeneration was invented ten or fifteen years ago, but still, ya gotta have some ethics, right? Maybe not — things change. Still, pounding a guy who’s sitting and not expecting anything is, to me, not cool.

Still, Buddy was OK about it. He got up, laughed, wiped the blood off his mouth, and said, “Cheap shot, Davey. But OK. Outside, man. I don’t want to break a Dragon chair or beer glass over your head.”

Well yeah, I couldn’t be on Davey’s side after that. I had to find a new team, or, more likely, play rogue for the night.

The crowd pushed outside and the brawl started, long before ten. Even the unofficial “refs” weren’t there.

Screw Davey. I clocked him right on the nose. I think I broke it — sure was a lot of blood came out of it.

Someone smacked me from behind right in the ear. I went down and the ringing started again.

Got to my feet, found Davey’s brother, couldn’t remember his name at the time, said, “Davey’s out of control.”

Brother said, “That’s Davey.”

“Not cool,” I said.

“So what?” he said.

So I pounded him in the stomach — no below the belt for me — then jumped and kicked him in the side of the head with my inferior left foot. He went down, I sat on his chest, and pounded into his face several times before he tapped my shoulder and then passed out.

My amphs kicked in, I swung and kicked at anything, danced around the periphery. Saw Davey, pounded him again. Looked for any other chuzzers, found them, pounded away. That new batch of chuzz, no doubt overpriced, wasn’t close to last time. The chuzzers were all slow and not scary at all. Pounded and pounded. Took a few shots, nothing major.

Others of our old Davey team had fucked off. There was only me and Davey; I felt sorry for him despite regeneration. I picked him up off the ground where he’d been weakly punching at some little kids, both river and hill kids, who were sitting on top of him, wailing away with pre-pube weakness. It was easy to push these little shits off Davey. “You’re assholes, kids,” I said. “You’re picking on a casualty, and you don’t regenerate as fast. Ya gotta wait until you get some hair on your face. Grow up. Go home and watch a vid or a screamie or something.”

One of the kids snarled at me. “No one does that anymore, old man.”

I pounded two of them, hoping they’d still be bleeding two days later.

Davey took a couple of swings at peripherals and missed. I pulled him away, dragged him to his tent where the river came down from the hill.

I threw him in there, said, “Chuzz don’t help, Davey. Gotta get off that shit.”

“I know what I’m doing,” he said, then passed out.

I shoved some Regen in his mouth, up his nose, and in his ears.

I went home, to my shitty room, in a partial shack, slightly up the hill.

Fuck the hangers-on. This is about those of us who understand how things now work. I don’t like this new shit — kids gotta respect, don’t they? I guess not. We’re all getting older, and there ain’t a lot of respect. Fuck this lack of fun.

Before I wiped the blood off my face, I took a Regen, and then a couple of downers so I could sleep.

Woke up, and blood was still coming out of my nose; slept all day, went to work, picked up passed-out people, threw ‘em in the truck, skipped out work early, didn’t go out that night coz I was still bleeding.

I made it out the next night, I wasn’t into it, pounded only a couple. I’d Regened perfectly but way too slowly. Am I growing up or just getting old?

About the Author

William Kitcher's stories (funny, not funny, and "other") have appeared in over 150 magazines worldwide.

His comic noir novel, "Farewell And Goodbye, My Maltese Sleep", was published by Close To The Bone Publishing in 2023, and is available on Amazon.

He enjoys it when Ion introduces William's stories on his radio program, and calls his novel "Farewell And Goodbye, My Maltese Sheep".