Kid Dynamite was suddenly up on the edge of the bed in a rage. He pounded his fists on the tops of his thighs. Through clenched teeth he said, “You don’t know shit!”

Cancer Frank heard him and said, “Hey!” The voice that had so terrorized Kid Dynamite for so much of his life stabbed him now like a punch to the solar plexus. Stepfather or no, the man was supposed to guide and encourage him, not run him down and disparage his every move. Cancer Frank was the original and main source of his travail in the world thus far. Kid Dynamite imagined him poised up in bed next to his mother. C.F. said, “Watch your goddamn mouth or I’m coming in there!”

Kid Dynamite got up and crossed the hallway to the master bedroom saying, “Well, come on then, you son of a bitch. If you want some, come on!”

The Driver leaped out of bed, rushed to the door, and locked it with a skeleton key just before he got there. “God! I knew this was going to happen.”

Kid Dynamite grabbed the door handle and shook it. Then he began pounding the door with the balls of his fists. His hands were already sore from the tournament. This only intensified his rage. He threw his hip and shoulder against the door. It was an old door. Solid oak. “I’ll knock down the wall,” he screamed. “I’ll kill that cocksucker!”

The Driver’s voice was a vicious rasp, “You get the hell out of this house!”

In the middle of a coughing spasm, Cancer Frank choked out the words, “Call the police!”

Kid Dynamite stood at the door and listened to his stepfather cough. From the sound of it, Kid Dynamite knew he was overdramatizing. He shouted, “Go ahead, call them, you car-selling motherfucker. I hope you die!”

He gave the door a last thump and went back to his bedroom where he dropped to the floor and pumped off two hundred push-ups. He knew the police would not be called. But someone would be brought in to straighten him out. Uncle Mikey, a seriously bad guy and a notorious overreactor. Since the onset of Frank’s disease, Uncle Mikey had more than once dragged his nephew out of bed, kicking his ass all the way down to the basement. He came early, too, when the kid was most vulnerable. He was like some Eastern European goon squad in that regard. It would be better if the police were called—better they than Mikey.