Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is the Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted by Denise defined by it’s numerical eponymous title.

…previously in this Six Sentence Serial

[ed. Hey! if you haven’t read Nick‘s first Six, hold off on listening to my audio accompaniment; his totally enhances his story. Ours? Well, we broke a casual Rule about not reading other Sixes until we publish our own and kinda got the power chords stuck in our heads. Not to say it doesn’t work here, but just a whole different tone. ya know?]

Prompt word:

WEDGE

“What’cha got in the bag, pal,” the voice from the alley confirmed how ill-advised my decision to walk the three city-blocks from the Bottom of the Sea to my office for some take-out dinner and overdue paperwork was.

I came this close to taking the civilized path, the wedge-shaped intersection that created two realities: one in which I surrendered the doggy bag Diane Tierney put, still warm on the bottom, in my hands not seventeen minutes before, and the other, playing my role in the ultimate screenplay an absent-minded Creator threw into the first Man’s go-bag as He evicted him from the Garden.

“Here,” extending my right hand to the middle third of the not-high-enough junkies blocking my path;

“It’s not worth fighting over,” the tone of dismissal dashed any hope of not stepping into chaos; the leader-by-default  grabbed my wrist providing me momentary stability, so I leaned back on my trailing leg and swept his legs, the filthy concrete sidewalk broke both his fall and his nose.

The second mugger scrambled to get out of reach as I turned in his direction, the shock of adrenalin flooding his previously-sedated nervous system panic-froze him in place; the third, seemingly more experienced mugger, was reaching into his Army surplus jack for what I assumed was a weapon, so, after setting my dinner-to-be on a clean section of sidewalk, I grabbed the hair on either side of his face and, shaking his head like a disobedient dog, yanked him to a fire hydrant.

For god knows what reason, a scene from Godfather III flashed through my mind,

“Hey, Mugger number 2, watch this,” I then did my best, short-order cook cracking an egg, on the cast iron fire hydrant; the first mugger groaned in the dark, the second one threw-up and the third, well, he just kind of broke.

I picked up the take-out bag that Diane, one of my favorite people, had given me and continued my walk in the dark city night.