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Updated: May 25, 2025
His eyes come up in hate, glaring at Joe who stood there across from him, hands now extended forward in the stance of a karate fighter. Joe could follow the other's agonized thoughts in his expression. There were medics available and though the wound was a decisive one, it need not be fatal, not in this day of surgery and antibiotics. No, not fatal, the Sov Officer decided.
Around this great chimney the wooden house clusters itself, in a whole community of gable-ends, each ascending into its own karate peak; the second story, with its lattice-windows, projecting over the first; and the door, which is perhaps arched, provided on the outside with an iron hammer, wherewith the visitor's hand may give a thundering rat-a-tat.
Joe's attacker tucked his chin into his shoulder, fighter style, and moved in throwing off the effects of the karate blows. Somehow, he seemed considerably less drunk or over-tranked than he had short moments before, and there was rage in his face, rather than glaze. One of the blows caught Joe on a shoulder and sent him reeling back.
And she knew that, as adept as she might be at defending herself with a bit of judo and karate, that she could never ward off an army of rapists. That being the case, she backed away to belong only to the day.
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