Part 11

Yanick Champoux

Out of anger and frustration, I slammed my fist against the cold metallic obstacle. It is said that, under dire circumstances, people are capable of extraordinary feats of strength. What is less known is that steel-reinforced inanimated objects, under the same type of circumstances, are also capable of great stubborness. My clenched hand, vigorously driven forward by muscles gorged with red-hot blood pumped out of a frantic heart crushed itself against the unimpressed door in a powerful demonstration of self-pulpification.

Cursing with a gusto that would have put to shame any practioner of the voodoo arts, I brought my ravaged knuckles to my lips. I tasted blood, rust and some slimy, fuzzy substance reminescent of that yogourt whose expiration date I would always regret not having paid attention to. There I was. Hurt, locked in a dark, nauseous place filled with garbage and horrid little creatures that would soon realize my superior alimentary potential over their usual diet of rotten cabbages, while the captain and his men were doubtlessly looking for me with the intend of accusing me of a murder than I only accessorily comitted. Things couldn't get worse.

That's when the hand grasped my shoulder.

I spinned around and screamed like a girlscout having inadverently stepped in the locker-room of a gerontologic sumo wrestling club. High on adrenaline, I fisted my bleeding hand forward. A most regretable reflex, my brain permitted itself to comment as it delivered the backlash of teeth-grinding pain my much abused hand's nerves dismally reported. But the meaty grunt that followed the impact, with the sound of a body stumbling backward told me that this time I not only received, but gave.

This grunt, this voice. I knew it.

Joe Sweet!