'Being called a fatass all my life never really had an impact on me. I just shrugged it off every time, telling myself I was just big-boned or buff, but considering that I'm now running for my life and I'm about to pass out from breathing so hard and I've only been running for two fucking blocks, maybe what they always said had something to it.
I don't even know how it got to this point. I was on my way home ten minutes ago and I was passing that gay girl bar, Lesbos or something, when some huge man-lady came staggering out and knocked me over. I told her to watch where her fat dyke ass was going, and the next thing I know I'm sprinting down icy sidewalks with a knife-wielding lesbian on my toes.'
Eric skidded on the slippery concrete, losing his footing and tumbling into an alley. He struggled to regain his balance, only to be shoved flat once more by his pursuer. The woman was in her early fifties, volatile in size and temperament. She reeked of vodka and cheap beer and her girth was crushing the air out of the juvenile beneath her. Her switchblade was clenched in her fist, and the maniacal grin decorating her haggard face made obvious her eagerness to use it.
Gasping and wriggling, Eric made bid after desperate bid in vain to escape. Being murdered by a drunken homosexual butch with a cheap knife wasn't on his to-do list for the day, and he had no intention of being the town's next big headline.
At least, not in that context.
He felt the woman steady herself as best she could, now straddling him by the back, and raise the knife high above her head. He heard her cackling and wheezing, and mustering all the strength he could, he shot out from beneath her just as the knife came swooshing down.
He flattened himself against the alley wall, curling up and crossing his arms above his body, trying to protect his head and abdomen. He heard the woman stumbling and struggling to stand, and as he dared to peek through his fingers, he saw her terrible expression. Her eyes said it all. She was out for blood. He wedged his eyes shut again and clenched his teeth, waiting for the pain of the first blow as her laugh grew closer and closer.
It never came.
There came a dull thud, and suddenly the laughter ceased. Eric opened his eyes to see the woman slumped over on her front, a bleeding gash ornamenting the back of her skull.
"Who…?"
A hand grabbed the back of his hair roughly, forcing his head and gaze downwards.
"There's no way I was going to let some drunk dyke kill you, Eric."
Eric shuddered. The voice was casual, taunting. He could hear his savior's smile in his words. He knew that voice.
"That's right, little brother, no random punk on the street will ever be taking your life. Do you know why?"
Another hand found its way to his chin, grabbing his face from underneath and yanking it upwards. Hazel eyes met reddened cerulean, and lips only inches away spoke in soft yet menacing tones.
"Because your life is mine to take. Only mine, do you understand?"
In a flash, Eric thrust was back on the ground. Scrambling to his knees, he watched in awe as Scott Tenorman ran off into the darkness.