"HI-YAH!"
Langston brought his open hand down onto the center of a zombie's head, and the reanimated corpse fell to the pavement in a quivering heap. Another came at him from behind, and he rammed his elbow back into its guts. He wrapped his arm around its neck and flung it over his shoulder. It landed atop the first, arched its back, and let out a pained groan. A third approached, and Langston jumped into the air and lashed out with his foot, nailing it in the chin. It fell to one side and lay still.
Panting, Langston admired his handiwork: A trail of broken bodies littered the street between here and Pissy's three blocks back, some of them twitching like smashed bugs and others unmoving, either dead or so damaged they might as well be.
He was currently on the western edge of downtown, brick and glass storefronts to the left and town square up ahead. Sirens rose somewhere in the distance and gunshots rang out, the echo making their position impossible to determine.
Three zombies appeared down the street staggering like drunks on their way home. They spotted Langston and started to lope toward him. Hopping from one foot to the other, Langston threw his arms behind him, ducked his head, yelled, "Naruto run!" and ran at them, feet barely touching the ground. The zombies paused, as if having second thoughts, but it was too late: Langston leapt into the air, thrust one foot out in front of him like a spear, and hit a ghoul in the head, knocking it clean off. He landed on one foot, pivoted around, and kicked another zombie in the chest; it doubled over and flew backwards, hitting a metal trash can and startling a sleeping wino into flight.
The final zombie held his fists up to his face, and he and Langston circled each other like two young bucks boutta throw down. "You wanna go, fleshbag?" the zombie asked. "Come on, I'll mess you up. I didn't beat cancer but I'll definitely beat you."
Langston made a move, and the zombie drew back.
"Bring it," Langston said.
The zombie sprang, and Langston hit him with a flurry of punches to the chest. The zombie brought its fist around and smashed it into the side of Langston's head. Langston stumbled, and the zombie capitalized with an uppercut to the stomach. Langston grunted and bent at the waist. The zombie circled one arm around the boy's neck and threw himself back in a perfect DDT. Langston's face hit the asphalt and stars burst across his vision; the zombie clambered onto his back, put him in a one-armed chokehold, and pressed his knee between Langston's shoulder blades, trapping him. "Tap out," the zombie said.
"Never!" Langston cried.
The zombie tightened his grip, cutting off Langston's air supply. "Say uncle."
"Fuck you!"
The edges of Langston's consciousness turned soft and gray, and his lungs throbbed for air. Panic began to set in and hysteria threatened to overwhelm him.
Before losing control, he aligned his chakras (or something), and asked himself the one guiding question that had informed his life since seventh grade.
What would Bruce do?
Easy.
Bruce would win.
Gritting his teeth and calling upon reserves of strength he didn't even know he had, Langston bucked like an untamed bronco, and the zombie's hold loosened. Its arm brushed Langston's lips, and seeing his chance, he bit down as hard as he could, teeth rending, jaw locking; cold, dead skin flecking his tongue like the world's yuckiest spice. The zombie howled in pain, and Langston bucked again, this time knocking him off.
He jumped to his feet, and the zombie rolled back and forth like a turtle on its shell, holding its wounded forearm and hissing like Peter Griffin with a skinned knee. "God," it moaned, "that really does hurt."
Langston lifted his foot, and the zombie's eyes widened.
"You have been defeated," Langston said. I imagine the movements of his mouth not synching with what he says, just like a dubbed Bruce Lee movie.
The zombie held up its hands in a mollifying gesture. "Wait, please, don't. Before you kill me...let me pray."
Langston stopped. As a god-fearing type himself, he understood and respected the zombie's desire to get right with the big guy. "Fine., "Pray."
The zombie balled his fists to his mouth and closed his eyes. "Dear Heavenly Father, I beg of you: Give this son of a bitch dick rot for me."
Snarling, Langston brought his foot down on the zombie's face, breaking its head like an overripe pumpkin.
He yanked away and turned just as another ghoul came up the street, this one tall and wearing a dinosaur suit, it looked left and right like a stranger in a strange land.
More foes.
Langston strode toward him.
Dino saw him and stopped, one corner of his mouth lifting in a sneer of distaste. Langston stopped in front of him, held up his fists, and weaved his head from side to side. Energy flowed through him and for the first time he could remember, he felt truly at peace with the world.
All it took was killing a bunch of people.
Well…"people."
"What the fuck is you doin'?" Dino asked.
Langston scuttled closer, ready to strike.
"You best get yo' lil' headband-wearin' ass out my grill, nigga.I ain't tryna fuck wit'cho. Go on."
He tried to walk around, but Langston blocked his path. "I've come to destroy you."
Dino's brow shot up. "Oh, you ain't gonna do shit to me, nigga."
Langston held a hand out, palm up, and curled his fingers in a defiant come-hither.
"'Ight," Dino said. He took a diamond stud out of his ear and shoved it into the hands of a passing zombie. "Hold my shit." He rolled his neck, squared his shoulders, and cracked his knuckles with a flourish. "You really tryna get'cho feelin's hurt?"
Langston's only response was to bounce from one foot to the other.
"Make yo' move, homie," Dino said.
Tensing, Langston did...and the white rapper instantly grabbed him by the throat and dragged him off his feet, just like he did with Tim. Must be part of his MO. "What's good, homie?" he yelled obnoxiously. "What's good?"
For the second time that night, Langston couldn't breathe. He thrashed, kicked, and pummeled Dino's face with blows, but none of those shots had any effect on the gargantuan. Langston's brain spasmed in terror and his lungs squeezed in a vise. His eyes bugged from their sockets and the warm, tingling mist of death settled over him. He frantically clawed at the backs of Dino's hands, but to no avail. He swung his legs up, planted his feet into Dino's stomach, and tried to pull back, but that didn't work. It wasn't looking good, folks.
"You gon' die tonight, nigga. You gon' get'cho ass back up and walk around just like me. You gon' feel yo'self rot, nigga. You gon' be cold as fuck too, nigga."
Langston's life flashed before his eyes...and the final image was Bruce Lee looking disappointed. You let me down, Langston.
Sensi, no!
Crying out, he hit Dino dead in the nose. It shattered under his fist and the SoundCloud-wannabe's hands flew open. Langston dropped to his knees, then got back to his feet just in time for Dino to grab him again. This time, instead of choking him, Dino spun him around and let go.
For a terrible second, Langston screamed through the night...then he landed hard on the grass, the air whooshing from his lungs. He lay there, stunned, then rolled onto his stomach and got his hands and knees under him.
"You motherfucka!" Dino roared. He snatched Langston up by his shaggy blonde hair and pulled him to his feet. Langston twisted around and hit him in the mid-section with a devastating punch. Dino staggered, then came forward like a freight train. Langston tried to jump out of the way, but he wasn't fast enough; Dino tackled him into something stone, rough, and abrasive. Langston's flesh tore, blood tickled. Everything hurt: His muscles, his legs, and his arms.
Dino hit him once, twice, three times, left, right, left, right. He closed his hand around Langston's throat, reared back, and lifted his fist for one last punch, this one lethal. Langston closed his eyes…
...but the hit never came.
He creaked one eye open, and Dino stared up at something looming over them. Langston followed his gaze.
The statue.
They were at its base; Langston bent back over the pedestal. The bronze figure towered above their heads, revealed by a spotlight pointed just so, that way people could bask in Dino's greatness even after sundown. "What?" Dino drew in amazement. He let Langston go and fisted his hand to his mouth. "Yo, they got a statue of me?"
Langston rolled to one side, fell to his knees in a heap, and fought to catch his breath. He was bloodied, dazed, and missing a tooth or two...but he was alive.
"Yo, look at this," Dino beamed. "They even got me in my Phats, nigga. Word?" He walked slowly around the statue, craning his neck to take in every detail. Langston staggered to his feet, woozy, and swayed like a tree in a hurricane (can we nuke it?). Dino climbed up onto the platform and studied his bronze counterpart like Narcissus at the reflecting pool. Langston lingered for a moment...then said screw it and stumbled away. He'd go pick on someone his own size.
Alone, Dino pulled out his phone. "I'mma put this shit on Instagram," he said as he opened his camera.
Three minutes later, Dino's 800,000 followers were shocked when the dead man's account updated for the first time in three years with a photo: A face, decaying and gray but recognizable as Dino, mugging next to his statue.
THEY LOVE ME, the caption read.