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ordered the farmer, sounding a
little less confident.
     
    Jimmy held his breath, watching Cowboy Hat
advance on the old man. He had a feeling that this was going to end
badly and he knew he had to do something. He quickly pulled the
keys from the ignition and reached behind the seat for the small
aluminum bat that the drivers used to thump the tires to check for
flats. The small bat was about sixteen inches long and it felt good
in his right hand. He leapt down from the cab, his boots landing on
the concrete with a thump.
     
    “Stop!” ordered Jimmy, reaching down and
picking up the discarded knife. “Don’t move another inch!”
     
    “Look out, Jimmy!” shouted Bill in a shrill
voice.
     
    Jimmy turned just in time to see the tattooed
man running up behind him. He had nothing in his hands and
obviously intended to tackle him. Jimmy lashed down with the bat
and caught him square on the left forearm. There was a sickening
crack and the little man screamed in pain. He clutched at his arm
and held it tight to his stomach. Jimmy quickly returned his
attention to Cowboy Hat and was surprised to see that the big man
was rushing him, moving in fast enough to blow the hat off the top
of his head. Jimmy stood sideways. In his left hand he held the
stiletto and in his right was the bat. He cocked his right arm back
and timed his swing, waiting until the guy was nearly on top of him
before giving it everything he had. The blow caught Cowboy Hat in
the midsection and dropped him dead in his tracks. He grabbed his
stomach with both hands and rolled on the ground, a terrible pained
expression his face.
     
    “You son of a bitch,” he whispered, trying to
catch his breath.
     
    “I would’ve shot him,” the old man said,
holding the shotgun in shaking hands. “I would have.”
     
    “I know you would’ve,” said Jimmy. “And then
you’d have ended up in jail for God knows how long.”
     
    An hour and a hundred questions later, Jimmy
and Bill were finally back on the highway. The State Patrol had
eventually shown up and hauled the two crooks off to jail. After
thanking Walt Burns, the farmer, many times over, they had hopped
in the truck and headed east.
     
    During that time the station had run
completely out of fuel and had closed up tighter than a drum. More
than one car had left rubber in the lot, having waited fruitlessly
for a very long time.
     
    Jimmy called Paula again and there was no
answer on her cell or at the trailer. He cursed his phone and
dialed Ken’s number and explained what had just transpired. Ken was
happy that they were all right and then pleaded for Jimmy to get to
his place, just as soon as he could. Jimmy said that he’d be there
as soon as he got home and packed a few things. He hung up and slid
the cell phone back into his shirt pocket. It’d been some day
already and he knew it was still early. He wondered about Paula,
wondered if she’d be there when he got home, wondered if he’d ever
see her again. The thought left him feeling sick to his
stomach.
     
    “You’re just like Rambo,” said Bill, grinning
his stupid Bill grin.
     
    “Shut up,” said Jimmy, smiling in spite of
himself.
     
    “Yes-sir, just like Rambo,” Bill repeated.
“You’re one genuine bad-ass.”
     
    Jimmy laughed. He didn’t feel like a bad-ass.
He hadn’t been in a scrap since he’d been in the ring and that had
been a long time ago. His instructors had taught him the difference
between wanting to fight and needing to fight. And he’d needed
to fight in both situations, hadn’t he? He wasn’t sure, but
it’d felt good to lash out at someone, anyone, and he wasn’t sorry
for how he had reacted to both situations.
     
    “Did I tell you about my cousin?” asked
Bill.
     
    Jimmy groaned and turned on the radio. The
Rolling Stones were playing and he turned up the volume until the
speakers were on the verge of distortion. One song followed another
and Jimmy thought how odd it was that the station