Rockets Versus Gravity Read Free

manoeuvres are even simpler. As the guy barrels toward him, Aleksander merely steps out of the path of the attacker’s charge at the very last minute. His opponent will sometimes be bent forward far enough that Aleksander can deliver a spin-kick to the guy’s balls from behind as he passes; but if the guy isn’t leaning into it enough (or has very small balls), Aleksander cracks the guy’s tailbone with the steel toe of his black boot instead.
    Step out, lean in.
    In this scenario, the broken nose will be delivered from above, after the other guy hits the ground. And then, if Aleksander missed them on the first pass, he will retroactively kick his opponent in the testicles.
    Step out, lean in.
    It’s not about being tough. It’s not about being brave.
    It’s about geometry. It’s about physics. It’s about mathematics.
    Trajectory. Circumference. Deflection. Timing.
    Step out, lean in.
    The equation has always added up to this: Aleksander will remain standing; his assailant will not. Aleksander will remain uninjured, except maybe for some bruised knuckles, while his attacker will possess at least one (but usually all three) of the following modifications to his physiology: a broken nose, a broken tailbone, and traumatically injured testicles.
    Now Captain Football is curled up in a quivering fetal ball on the cold, cracked pavement, coughing up vomit and blood. His upper lip is split, and his nose is certainly broken; Aleksander felt the cartilage snap against his knuckles. Aleksander landed his single punch and two kicks with the accuracy of sniper’s bullets; this one won’t be able to sit comfortably or blow his nose without pain for some time.
    Predictably, a few of the buddies run over to aid their fallen comrade. A few others, the ones who were laughing the loudest less than a minute ago, advance on Aleksander.
    â€œYou’re dead, asshole!”
    â€œSo fucking dead!”
    This is the point at which Aleksander reaches into his black leather jacket and then snaps open the switchblade.
    The advance halts.
    Aleksander stands with his feet wide apart, his knees bent, his arms stretched wide, as if he’s about to leap up into the misty air and fly away. The blade in his right hand glints amber from the sodium-vapour parking lot lights overhead.
    Captain Football limps away with his brothers in arms. One of them calls out, “You’re gonna die, buddy.”
    Aleksander says, “No, I will not.”
    As they retreat toward a shining Dodge pickup truck, another teammate says, “We’ll find you, gimp.”
    Aleksander says, “No, you will not.”
    Another, who is helping to lift Captain Football over the tailgate, adds, “We know where you live, fucker.”
    Aleksander says, “No, you do not.”
    He doesn’t lower his arms or move his feet until the pickup truck has roared away, its red tail lights vanishing into the foggy air. Then Aleksander plunges headlong into the mist, the last figure to vanish from the scene, as always.
    Step out, lean in.
    N o matter how close she stands to her tiny bedroom window, from whatever angle she looks, Clementine’s view of the outside world is now filled with the billboard.
    The first advertisement to go up was for a local insurance agency. Beneath the company’s logo was a huge photograph of the office’s “Number One Sales Agent,” with her pimples and lady-moustache expertly airbrushed away. Beside her portrait, the words:
Brooklynn Tripp
    Broker
    One night, while Clementine was sleeping, someone with a can of black spray paint climbed the billboard’s tall iron frame and added the following:
Brooklynn Tripp ed and
    Broker NECK!
    Clementine gasped when she saw it through her bedroom window in the morning, and she giggled when she told her mother about it at breakfast.
    Her mother reached across the table and slapped her face. “Vandalism is not funny,” she