63 “On your left!” (as if that makes it okay)

Little Drew deftly struck the two who’d regained their feet after landing on their weasel faces. They were mature men, in their forties, sure of themselves, sure they’d just been overconfident for a moment. This was a little baby they were assaulting, just two years, just ten months old. Surely they would obliterate him.
“On your left!” one said clearly to the other, just before baby Drew’s clout knocked them out of their senses.
They were the epitome of bourgeoise bonhommie. They worked hard, and they played hard. Silver foxes, silver sports cars, salt and pepper sophistication, fifty mile bike rides, non-fat double half-caff wet cappuchinos, the northern California good life after ignominious nativity elsewhere. They’d arrived, and could do no wrong. So the baby would go down.
But at the web end of the flyswatter, they were a couple of dead ducks.


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