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No sound came out of his mouth as he doubled over in pain and stumbled sideways onto the tiny front lawn of Zambini's house. I thought that any second Bobby would spring up and stab me or shoot me or even worse-chop off my head with some crazy Kung Fu karate chop, fly through the air and scissor-kick my torso, slicing open my rib cage to reveal my beating heart to the entire WHAM! I jumped on him and started beating the living crap out of him. Punching and kicking and elbows and knees and punching and everything became one big blur and the next thing I knew my own dad and Mr. Zambini were pulling me off and telling Bobby Burns to get the hell up and go home.

Which he did-very very slowly.

Okay okay, he stuttered, awright.

He had drool running down his chin and a bunch of cuts on his Roger Daltrey chest and grass stains all over his jacket and jeans but-he was moving away.

My father had come running from our house and only saw the last part of what had happened-but he knew enough to say-out of the side of his mouth-"Good job. But don't say anything to your mother about this." And off he went. Mr. Zambini told us to get the hell off his goddam lawn. Then he went back inside. It was all over so fast.

As we watched Bobby Burns make his way down the block-bent and bumbling-Dave Minor summed up what each one of us was thinking:

What the hell did you do that for?

I dunno, I said. What just happened?

Holy shit, Mark Zambini said.

He's gonna kill you tomorrow, Barry Gay said.

He's gonna kill all of us, John Dourville added.

Andy Zambini didn't fart.

Or hock a loogie.

Or even belch.

He just shook his head and followed his father inside the house.

Wow.

That night I went to bed thinking my life-as I knew it-was probably over. My dad gave me a knowing look at the dinner table and instead of feeling proud-I was worried sick. The next morning I awoke, once again filled with a let's get it over with quick mentality. I met up with John and Dave and Barry and the Zambini Brothers. Everyone had long faces. We played street hockey, but every time someone thought they saw a figure off in the distance-we'd stop and look up-frozen with fear and a bottomless pit of dread.

Then someone would say It's okay-it's not him.

That must have happened ten or fifteen times that morning. But Bobby Burns never showed up. As a matter of fact-he didn't show up anywhere for a couple of days.

Maybe you killed him, Barry said.

Maybe he's buying a gun, Dave said.

Then-on the third day-down the block he came. As soon as we saw him, we all got Deaf Mute Fear. You know the kind? The fear so strong it starts out somewhere inside the marrow of your bones and emanates like a magnetic force out through your blood cells and into your veins and rumbles up and wraps around your arms and legs and neck and chest and leaves you unable to speak or hear anything except the pounding of your own pulse reverberating in your eardrums?

Ba-bump.

Ba-bump.

Bobby Burns was walking toward us.

Ba-bump.

Ba-bump.

I wanted to run but my feet refused to move.

Ba-bump.

Ba-bump.

From a distance, he looked angry-defiant. Uh oh.

Ba-bump.

Ba-ba-bump.

My heart was beating faster.

Ba-ba-bump. Ba-ba-bump.

Maybe that was Barry's heart.

Ba-ba-bump.

Nope-it's mine. Don't shit your pants don't shit your pants whatever you do DO NOT SHIT IN YOUR OWN PANTS.

Ba-ba-bump.

He's twenty feet away. Don't piss your pants either.

Ba-ba-bump.

As he drew closer I actually shut my eyes, figuring at least I wouldn't have to watch my own dismantling.

Ba-ba-bump.

I could smell him now.

Ba-ba-bump.

I sneaked a peek-to see if Barry and John and Dave and The Zambinis were still there and-much to my surprise-we were all looking at each other. Then we looked up to see Bobby Burns-walking just past us, waving a weak hello and saying "hey guys" and-get this-continuing on his way.

It took us more than a few seconds to mutter two or three heys back at him.

And then he was gone.

Wow.

We must have stared down at the empty end of the block for