Where is he?
Where is he?
Where is he?
Just as I’m about to punch Starr in the nuts to defend myself and send him flying off me, the front door busts open—honestly, it almost flies off its hinges and snaps in two—and Tool comes to my rescue. He crosses the room with superhuman speed like Flash, pulls Starr off me, and tosses the man to the living room floor.
Bump!
Thud!
Crack!
Opportunity knocks. Starr conks his head off the leg of an end table. The wrench I borrow from Tool tumbles off the table and falls. It hits Starr in the left temple. I’m sure he sees stars, birds, planets, go-go dancers, and whatnots. He mumbles something, holds his head. The guy can barely stand, but he does. And he finds the strength to crawl to my front door, attempts his exit, and prattles things over his
