Domo Hudson
was trying to listen to the lady who handed out the bug-juice.
He had
overheard them talking last night. They
were concerned that the POWs would not drink the stuff.
As far as Domo
was concerned, it was like drinking liquid candy. It had been a long, long time since he had
tasted anything so sweet. The fact that
it was salty did not detract from the sweetness. It reminded him of BBQ sauce.
He was
listening to the lady and trying to do what she was instructing. He knew that she wasn't going to be handing
out any of the bug juice until she was satisfied.
He heard one
of the other tent leaders behind him muttering “Bool shit. Bool shit.” as the woman explained how they
needed to clean their hands and clean the Igloo coolers. Domo glanced back at DeLeon, one of his
homies, and could tell that DeLeon was getting frustrated too.
Domo knew
DeLeon from playing streetball back home.
Hispanics might outnumber Blacks five-to-one now but there was still
some turf where the Hispanics feared to tread, and the streetball court was one
of them.
Streetball
resembled basketball the way lacrosse or hockey resembles soccer. Basketball, in its purest form, is not a
contact sport. Streetball in its purest
form is an impact sport.
Status was
earned by playing streetball. The best
players got the best courts and could
walk-on and play anytime they wanted.
DeLeon Redd was not the best player but he was plenty, damned good. He could hit three pointers at will and was a
magician with the ball.
Domo was in
one of the middle tiers. He did not have
the hands to be a great shooter and nobody had ever cared enough to determine
that his eyesight was desperately in need of correction. Also, he was only about 6'-2”. He compensated for his diminutive stature (by
streetball standards) by being heavily muscled.
He played forward like a bulldozer and was an “enforcer”. Domo and DeLeon knew each other's strengths
and weaknesses in an intimate, almost intuitive way.
The Hispanic
who was behind them and muttering “Bool shit” was getting louder. They knew from experience that he was a
whiner and was going to try to cut to the front of the line.
DeLeon and
Domo increased the distance between them.
DeLeon moved a quarter step back and Domo moved a quarter step
forward. That created an avenue between
them. It was an invitation.
Frederico
Jimenez finally ran out of patience. He
started pushing toward the bulk container where the bug juice was dispensed.
There is a
“Freddy” in every group. He is the
attention whore who makes everything take twice as long as it needs to.
Freddy got an
unexpected hip-check as he brushed past DeLeon.
Freddy turned his head away from Domo as he started to curse DeLeon.
Freddy never
saw Domo's elbow coming.
There is an
art to throwing an elbow and Domo was a consummate artist. The key to throwing a devastating elbow is to
tense up all of the muscles in your body and to rotate with your core. It helps to line up your forearms and use the
basketball as a load path. In this case,
the Igloo cooler Domo was holding was nearly the same diameter and stiffness as
a streetball.
Domo's
rotation was slow, almost languid for most of the strike. It was if he were casually turning to see the
kerfuffle. The acceleration was
rattlesnake quick for the last four inches, and, unless you were watching very
carefully, was so fast that it was unseeable.
Domo's arms and torso rebounded after his elbow connected with the flat
of Freddy's chin. They returned to the
position they would have been in had he continued to rotate at the languid
pace. 230 pounds of muscle hit Freddy
like a sledge hammer.
When Freddy
regained consciousness in the infirmary tent he would learn that his jaw was
fractured in three places and a concussion. He had no
recollection of how that happened.
“Maam,” Domo
said in his deep, resonant bass as he looked down at Freddy, his face a study of
innocence, “with all due respect, will it be possible for you to speed up the
instruction so no more soldiers faint?”
Martha stepped
up the pace. The plan was to transition
to dropping off trailers loaded with 4 juice IBC and 2 disinfectant IBCs and pick up trailer with the empties. They needed somebody to manage the trailers, to ensure the Igloo containers were disinfected and to call when the last juice IBC was close to empty. There were not enough farm
workers or SD-LA forces to coordinate all of the activities so the POWs had to select leaders among themselves to manage the juice distribution.
Next Installment
this may be too old to comment on, but I will anyway. I have NEVER seen anyone explain how I threw people around the basketball court better than this. I popped one guy in the eye with a rebound held like you described. It split the skin and he bled pretty profusely. I learned that from my dad. When the elbows go out and the ball is in the middle, stay clear. I hip threw a kid once and he never got near me during the rest of the game. It was second nature. Interesting how you described my instinctual rebound protection stance. Amazing!
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