I broke my hand over the weekend. Actually, not the whole hand, it’s not shattered or anything. Just broke the pinkie on my left hand. If you had to choose a finger to break, that’s a good one to choose.
How did I break my finger? That’s a good question. Below are three stories of how I MIGHT have broken it. See if you think any are true:
So there I was, standing in the alley with the smell of rotten garbage. Water dripped down my hair and into my eyes. I was soaked all the way to my converse. No way was I leaving, though. The drunk moron in front of me was going to learn some manners and I was going to defend my wife’s honor.
Was I worried? Heck no, I’m a black belt after all.
Then, just like in the movies, he lumbered unsteadily forward, throwing a roundhouse that a hippo could have avoided. I slipped by and pow, landed a good one on his nose. He rocked back, shocked.
Now I was a little giddy with the achievement, so I danced in to pop him another one. I swung my left hand, and crack. His head felt as hard as steel as my hand connected and I felt pain shoot up my arm.
Cradling my hand, all I could do was watch his fist coming right at my face.
Little did I know that those words would be my undoing. I mean, come on, it was just a kids merry go round. I had spun my older kids on them hundreds of times when they were growing up. I couldn’t tell my stepson no, could I?
Telling him to hold tight, I grasped the rails and started to run. It’s a very weird thing to run while crouched over and grasping two rails on one side. Once I had him going I stopped to watch.
Yup, sure enough, he had that glazed look of a kid that was absolutely terrified and enjoying himself silly at the same time.
Timing it just right, I started to reach for the bars as I started running to match speeds. Therein lies my downfall. If I had just gone around the mud I wouldn’t have slipped. If I hadn’t slipped I wouldn’t have heard the loud crack as my finger was bent at a very unnatural angle.
“Last chance, so ya’ bedder tell us, see?”
Since I was strapped to a chair, I wasn’t about to correct this neanderthal’s grammar.
“Seriously, I think you have the wrong guy. I don’t know anything about a diamond.”
I looked desperately at the two thugs hovering over me. They exchanged a glance.
“Want me ta’ loosen his tongue Tony?” the bigger one asked.
“Nah, let’s look around first. It’s gotta be here.”
What could I do but sit as they busted up the joint. Not my place, which I think may have been the problem.
“Um, fellas, I don’t want to interrupt, but this isn’t even my house. Honest, I was just trying to collect money for cancer research. See? My bag is right there.”
I bobbled my head, trying to indicate the forgotten bag by the door.
“That’s it, Sylvester. Let’s rough him up.”
I was stunned. What type of respectable mafia guy is called Sylvester. Before I could question the name, the big guy grabbed my pinkie and yanked it up. I barely heard the snap before I blacked out.
I hope they found their diamond.
There you have it. Which one do you believe?
If you are interested, I have a couple other stories to check out:
I can send you more stories, including an exclusive Martin & James story where they battle the first vampire.