Trite perhaps but satisfying, I led with a seated punt to his groin. While his head came forward, that open mouth gaping wider than ever I swept both hands up to chop his throat from each side. He staggered back; I got up.
In quick succession he lost, either temporarily or permanently, the use of right knee, left eye, left knee, both ears, and throat. If I wanted to get anything else done I had to let go of his throat but not before I was sure he was out cold. A kick or two may have landed in his ribs after said release.
Looking around the barn, cast in a sickly yellow light, I couldn’t help but ask myself, “What would a Girl Scout do?” The question is a good one, both in terms of the calming nature of asking a familiar question, going through a familiar chain of logic, but also because I can then do the exact opposite.
A Girl Scout would go get help. I texted the sheriff, more of a taunt than anything.
A Girl Scout would have left. I prepped a welcome for Ma Inbred and her litter of idiots.