Cornpop and his boys all had rusty straight razors. They’d been soaking them in rain-barrels; getting ‘em rusty. I had a six-foot length of steel chain clinched in my right hand. My heart was beating out of my chest.
If I was going to get cut and left to bleed out in that hot, gravel parking lot, I was going to fracture a few skulls and crack a few ribs in the process.
Cornpop and I faced each-other, not four feet apart.
