Eat'em by Chase Webster Page B

searched for a weapon and my palm pressed hard to the bottom of the drawer to keep my face from turning to hamburger meat.
    I found the hilt of a two-pronged skewer. My chin rebounded off the hot stove steaming with my boiling sweat and I drove the skewer into the soft tissue under Lou’s brick jaw.
    He let me go and I collapsed to the floor, momentarily relieved from the sizzle of cooked skin. I crawled around the island in the center of the small kitchen, creating what distance I could between myself and the very large, very angry, very alive sociopath.
    “A close one, yes!” a small shrill voice cried out from atop the island. Eat’em dangled over the granite countertop, his tail wrapped around a hanging wok for balance. His red face burned with concern. He blinked his large triangular eyes and pressed an open palm to his tiny, puffed chest. “Jacob is off to a rocky start. Not Rocky Balboa or Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson Rocky, yes. Rather he’s looking horribly outmatched by the horrifically ugly Lou Parsons, whom may have eaten both Rockies before the match.”
    “Thanks for the help,” the words escaped breathlessly. I had a severe case of cottonmouth and one helluva dry throat.
    “Anything to motivate you,” Eat’em held his arm up and sliced it through the air. “Ding! Ding! Ding! And now round two is underway. Can Jacob make up for such an embarrassing performance in round one? My money is on no!”
    “Not now, Eat’em,” I said.
    “Who are you talking to, Jacob?” Lou rounded the island as he ripped the skewer from his lower jaw and tossed it skittering to the floor.
    Again the beast said my name. This time I was certain. It rang, bitterly through my skull, which still felt a bit like hardboiled eggs.
    He grappled me from the floor and lifted me above his head, ignoring an entourage of mule kicks and my slaphappy arm swings.
    “It looks like Jacob is using the ol’ Swing your appendages like a lunatic strategy,” Eat’em held a ladel like a microphone. We really needed to stop watching so much television. “Will it work out for him?”
    A wild elbow collided into one of Lou’s droopy ears. He let out a guttural scream and threw me as if I were merely a large insect that had landed on his neck.
    I tumbled across the kitchen, my body failing to defend itself from the harsh effects of gravity. I crashed onto a small mahogany table and slid into one of the miniature breakfast nook’s three windows. The inside pane broke around me, showering me with flakes of jagged glass.
    “Oohh,” Eat’em leapt from the counter and crossed his arms at my side. “That’s going to look brutal on the replay!”
    Lou grabbed me by a leg. My other foot cracked into his jaw and I scrambled to my feet. He smiled at me and jumped forward as I sidestepped, grabbing a cast iron pot from above the island and bringing it down on the back of the big man’s head.
    “I did not see that coming,” Eat’em said, hopping after us. “A pot to the skull? It’s unconventional. It’s against the rules. It’s brilliant!”
    I stomped hard against the lumbering Lou’s kneecap. He stumbled face first colliding with a microwave built into the wraparound cabinets.
    “It’s unbelievable, but round two might go to Jacob!” Eat’em said. “Yes, I think he had a surprise round and I think everyone is in a bit of shock. Especially fat ugly Lou with his big dumb face, yes. But I don’t think anyone is down for the count just yet.”
    I went for another go with the pot, just as Lou spun and grabbed my wrists. He lifted me, his nails digging into my skin. I dropped the pot. I kicked both feet into Lou’s abdomen. He loosened his grip enough that my feet dropped back to the ground and I brought a knee hard and fast into his groin.
    “Low blow,” Eat’em bellowed. “Is it poor sportsmanship or thoughtful strategy?”
    Lou shoved me.
    Granite bore into my side. I did my best impression of Jet Li and flung myself over the