Election 101 (Piece of my final project for ENGL 4210)

Blow number three took the cake. His face hit the pavement with the same tender finality of a fish hitting air. Blood peaked between the slits of his swollen eyes. As the boys walked away from Jason McTeague, a certain satisfaction and brother bond filled the air of their crime. Taking note of the cold wind, Salvage Bitton smiled to himself at the touch of fall that swished the heat off of the brawl. It had been a good brawl. A good brawl even if Jason molded in his hands—putty really, smooth and soft from years of winning. The only thing that would have made it even better was Jason had had his buddies there to back him up. That hadn’t part of the deal though. Salvage felt the ever widening spaces in his pockets, searching for Jason’s loaded wallet. It wasn’t there. About half way down the block, Salvage threw his arms out like Moses parting the Red Sea, and instructed the boys that since they failed to remember to take Jason’s wallet, they were now obligated to take his shirt as well. Talbot was practically Salvage’s right hand. Reminding Jason he was going to hell a virgin, Talbot slipped the shirt off of him. Trying not to get the blood from Jason’s pulverized face onto his shirt as he removed it; he covered Jason’s face with a meaty hand. A thin line of slobber trailed from Jason’s slack mouth onto Talbot’s hand. Talbot ground Jason’s face back into the pavement. “You sick freak!” he shouted, kicking the boy once more in the gut.
Tearing open the victim’s wallet, Salvage leaned close the boy’s ear. “Tell your daddy my dad said ‘hi.’” The pack moved away. They didn’t see Salvage hang back. As he stared at the mutilated figure, his stomach rocked to a new rhythm. Puke flooded the space between the boy’s body and Salvage’s sneakers. Jason’s last conscious thought streamed somewhere between hoping his assailant would puke up guts- his heart and liver to be exact- and wishing he wouldn’t, because if Salvage died on the spot, he’d die with Jason. Catching up to his team, Salvage and the boys sauntered off with clear consciences, exchanging high fives, knowing they were happier than they had been less than an hour ago.
On Main Street they found the Bag Lady. They waved at her. She waved back, smiling and revealing toothless gums. Forking out the bills they found in Jason’s wallet, Salvage placed them into the Bag Lady’s hands. “We wanted to feed the birds extra today.” Her sunken eyes twinkled in surprise. “Well honey, I’d like that a lot. I bet they’d like it too,” she said as she handed them each three pieces of stale bread. Winking, she said, “Now I don’t have nearly enough bread for this money you give me, so you’ll have to take some change.” Salvage wouldn’t hear of it. “We wanted to give you the rest of it, Granny. We all got homes and coats and nice things. Keep it…and we got a shirt for you too. You can use it as a pillow or somethin’.” As he handed the Bag Lady her new shirt, her hands shook with hope and bits of electric gratitude. “Thank you, honey. You boys done me more good than a whole week’s worth of feeding these fat pigeons.” Salvage Bitton’s nervous twitch started.
At precisely 8:45 p.m. Jason McTeague died next to Salvage Bitton’s puke. The doctors said the untimely death was brought on by excessive internal bleeding and bruising on the brain. Harry McTeague called Susan McTeague at the country club, and then looked out the hospital window with a mean smile lurking behind his distinguished beard. Rubbing his hands together in a polite gesture of sorrow, he announced, “Sympathy wins all kinds of votes.”