Rusty Grotto’s first rule of combat says that the tall one gets saved for last. Last, gets the worst. And for this bastard, worst means puking up your six dollar mixed drinks, swallowed teeth, and pint of blood through a shattered jaw.

The one with the slick black hair and too much cologne started mumbling something in Italian, trying to pull himself out of the gutter slime. I lifted my fancy crocodile boot up and brought the heel down on his ear.

Rusty Grotto’s second rule of combat says that anyone able to talk shit needs the old Boot Heel of Silence. I gotta say, it’s a good rule to live by. If they can still stir up a phrase in their head, their brains aint scrambled good enough. I turned to the last one, wondering if he’d worked up a second wind yet.

“I think he’s done for the night, sugar.” the Boss said in her smokey, dry ice voice.

“You think?” I asked, hoping to put another stomping to one of them.

“Honey, he yelled ‘You ruptured my testicle!’ before he passed out.”

“Guess he’s done then.”