Grinder Read Online Free PDF

something he didn't like. It said I wasn't afraid. It said I wasn't even surprised. It said I knew something he didn't. My grin said all of this in a fraction of a second.
    Pointy Shoes was good; he didn't waste time looking confused. He instead reached behind his back under the stretchy fabric of his synthetic shirt. His reaction didn't faze me; I was good too, better than this guy, even after two years of rusting. My right hand found the knife by my foot, and I lobbed it in the direction of Pointy Shoes. The throw was slow and sloppy not because I was rusty, but rather because I wanted Pointy Shoes to use both of his hands. He gave up on whatever was behind his back and decided to try to catch the slowly spinning knife moving towards his chest.
    Instinct is a funny thing; every person will always opt to save himself over almost any other choice. It takes years of training and experience to be able to fight the primal urge for self-preservation. Pointy Shoes chose personal safety over inflicting harm on me. He didn't catch the knife; he only managed to knock it out of the air. Pointy Shoes let out a sigh of relief just before my fist crushed his collar bone like a beer can. The blow knocked the air out of him, pushing with it any means of screaming. To his credit, Pointy Shoes stayed standing; he just crumpled inward like he was a balloon losing air. My heavy work boot smashed his instep knocking him off balance and into my hands. The fishing and rehabilitation had turned my grip into something close to a vise. His greasy hair had nowhere to go in my hands but down, dragging his face to my rising knee. Pointy Shoes fell to the old salt-soaked boards as though he were poured from a cup. His body just splashed unconscious at my feet. The few leftover fishermen were too far away to see what had just happened in four seconds beside the
Wendy
, and the sound couldn't have carried over the roar of motors and lapping water.
    I bent down and loosened the rest of the ropes holding the boat to the dock. Once the boat was free, I pulled Pointy Shoes into a fireman's carry. I laughed to myself when I realized that holding a full-grown man on my shoulders and climbing a ladder onto a boat were close to effortless. I had healed in time.
    I put Pointy Shoes in the bow and went to the wheel to fire up the diesel engine. The engine roared to life and let off a cloud of smoke that I secretly inhaled every day as though it were the scent of a rare rose. The exhaust gave me something that the clean sea air never could. As time went on the smell of man-made pollution was something I craved, something I welcomed like a secret devil.
    The rumbling of the engine pushed the boat through the cloud of smoke and away from the wharf. The motion of the boat caused Pointy Shoes to stir. I aimed the boat straight out to sea and walked out to meet my new friend.
    Before saying hello again, I took a nickel-plated .32 Smith & Wesson revolver from Pointy Shoes's waistband along with a wallet, keys, and a cell phone from his pockets. Pointy Shoes had a name: Johnny Romeo. The name told me everything. Someone had reached out to me. Someone who should have known better.
    Johnny was too out of it to cause trouble, so I went back to the wheel and guided us through the rapidly dimming light to a spot on the water where I could barely make out the lights from the dock. I yelled to Johnny as soon as I cut the engine. “What does Paolo want? Payback?”
    Johnny groaned in response. He had managed to pull himself up to a sitting position against the side of the boat. His synthetic shirt had a sharp angular bulge near his neck. The unnatural distension was surrounded by a growing wetness. Johnny had a compound fracture and probably a concussion from my knee. I picked up a bucket and got water from the bait tank. The fish inside swam happily when they realized I only wanted some of their real estate.
    The salt water hit him, soaking his shirt and sending pain through the