I got the idea for this story after reading TuffGreaser's "The Definition of Dallas Winston." She had a good take on the relationship between Tim Shepard and Dallas Winston, and she took it in a way I would never have thought of. So thanks to TuffGreasers for giving me the basic idea. :]
I WANT YOU TO HIT ME AS HARD AS YOU CAN
The back of my truck smelled like motor oil. Not the kind you fill your car with, but the reeking, straight-from-the-mill oil that you catch a whiff of at the repair shop. It was burning at my nostrils, and I wondered why my car smelled like this, but I was really in no mood to think about it. That was why I drove my old clunker onto this hill anyway, so I could just lie down on the bed of the truck and get my mind off of things. No thinking. No talking. Just silence.
The clouds were black, to match my mood. For a split second, I hoped that it rained, and it suddenly did. I closed my eyes, not wanting to get any rain in them. I knew a little thing like that would set my annoyance levels over the edge.
Fucking Angela…she really needed to leave me alone. Losing a fight always put me in a shitty mood, and for some reason, this recent loss against the Brumly outfit was making me feel worse than usual. I was appreciating Curly steering clear from me and not bringing it up (maybe he was just as hurt about it as I was). He was a smart kid, he knew me really well. But Angel…she really needed to choose a different time to pick a fight with me. She was dumb. I really hated her. But what choice did I have, other than to live with her?
My thoughts were interrupted by a sequence of noises. First, a sound of a switchblade opening. Then a popping noise followed by a flush of air. Four or five footsteps, and then the cycle would repeat. Four times it did this. I only realized what was happening when I felt my car descending in height. I sat up as quiet as possible and looked over the bed of the truck to find a blonde-headed kid sharpening a switchblade.
"What the fuck did you just do?" I yelled at him, even though I already knew the answer to the question. When he didn't respond to me (just continued sharpening the blade with a smirk on his smug little face) I jumped out of the bed of the truck and stood in front of him with my fists clenched. "This is the wrong time to fuck with me, Dallas."
He looked up at me, his blue eyes sparkling happy. "Really? You seemed to be in a pretty good mood during your nap on the truck."
"I wasn't napping…" I said angrily, but wasn't sure why this ticked me off as much as it did. "You picked the wrong day to wear a white shirt," I threatened him.
Dallas stood up and leaned against my car. "Why, is it after Labor Day?"
"I'm not in the mood, Dallas…" I said, rubbing my eyes out of tiredness. I really did need a nap, and right now was the time to do it. I had a horrendous headache. To sum it up, I was NOT in the mood to talk to Dallas right now. "Why are you here anyway?" I was all the way across town, a good fifteen miles from mine and Dallas's neighborhood.
"My old man kicked me out again. Saw your car and came up here, since I felt like it." Dallas threw the blade to the ground and turned to me. The rain was making his hair wet and it was sticking to his forehead like glue. He brushed it back with his fingers. "I need you to do me a favor."
I could have killed him right there. "You came up here, slashed my tires, and now you want me to do you a favor? What the hell is wrong with you?"
He ignored what I said. "I want you to hit me as hard as you can."
I raised my eyebrows at him. Anybody to request that must have been drunk, but Dally's breath smelled clean. I was itching to get my hands on somebody, but right now I wanted some sleep. I had to deny Dally's request. "Sorry, my friend. I'm going home." I walked past him and towards the front seat of my car.
I only got a few steps before I felt two hands with a strong grip on my shoulders. Dallas tried to shove me down but I shrugged him off and stepped away, taking the time to stare him in the eyes. He smiled and this made me smile. We both laughed inwardly at each other as I took my soaking wet shirt off and threw it into the truck, so all I had on was my jeans. I liked fighting without a shirt on. Clothing always tended to get in the way.
Dallas took his shirt off as well and wasted no time before saying, "My blade is away, yours should be too."
I didn't enjoy fair play, but I decided to oblige anyway. I took my blade out of my pocket and tossed it into the back of the truck.
At the sight of this, Dallas snuck one last smile at me and then charged towards me, knocking me over onto the ground. I took him down with me and threw him over my legs. We both got up, but he ran at me again. I merely lifted him up by the waist and tossed him over my back, so he landed nearly head first back onto the ground.
I picked him up by his hair and got him in a choke hold. He pulled and scratched at my arm and I tried hard to snap his neck to knock him out, but he was persistent in keeping it straight. He elbowed me in the stomach a couple of times and that sent me a little off-guard. I knew that the little hesitation I made set off any chances I had at knocking him out, so I just threw him over me again. I fell down with him, and then he got up before me and kicked me in the stomach.
I flipped over in an attempt to pick myself up again, but all I got was my head shoved into the ground and a mouthful of dirt. I tried my best not to swallow any as Dallas kneed me in the stomach again. I opened my mouth and it all poured out, and I made a face at the taste.
I got right back up with clenched fists and gritted teeth again. I punched Dallas the face, backed up a little, and pulled my best karate move on him and kicked him in the chest so that he fell backwards. With a bloody nose, he looked up at me from the wet grass.
My emotions all burst out, and I leapt on top of Dallas and just beat the living shit out of him. Hell, I beat the non-living shit out of him, too. I punched him, choked him, and rammed his smug little face into the ground. I would have smiled if my ribs weren't broken.
But then I stopped.
I looked at him, bloody and bruised, and just couldn't hit him anymore. I stood up, my legs still straddling him, and just looked down at him. His eyes were squeezed shut, and he looked like he was bracing for another impact. He opened one eye and stared at me, confused.
I jumped into the bed of the truck and got a cigarette out of my pocket, lit it, and look a long drag on it. I sat with my feet hanging off of the sides.
After a little bit, Dallas came up next to me, holding his shirt to his nose, trying to stop the bleeding. He scooted close to me and rested his head on my shoulder. I offered him a drag on my cigarette and he accepted it gratefully. After a little bit, he handed it back.
I flicked the ashes. "Why do you always gotta do that, Dal?" I asked him, inhaling the scent of his hair. Smelled like blood. I look down at his head on my shoulder and saw his white-blonde hair tinted a dark maroon on one side. From behind me, I grabbed my shirt (which was, at the time, soaking wet) and wiped his hair off with it.
As I did this, he responded to my question. "You gotta stop asking such vague questions, Timmy." Dallas Winston's snobby way of saying "I don't understand."
I snuck a worried peek at my shirt, as saw there was blood all over it. Dallas deserved the gash in his head, but maybe karma thought it was funny to give me this stain in return. "Why do you have to fight me all the time."
"I don't know," Dallas said, scooting closer to me. "Sometimes, I just need to win something. And fighting you always gives me a sure victory."
"Don't bullshit me," I said, still in no mood for any of this crap. "You never win."
Dallas took a deep breath. "Sure I do. I won this one, didn't I?"
"Ain't I the one receiving medical attention?"
"Fuck you, Dallas. Just answer the question."
Dallas sighed. "Okay. I guess I pick a fight with you because I don't want you to hurt nobody else. You get awfully fiery when you're mad, like a bomb waiting to go off. I know I'd rather have you fight me that I would have you hurt your parents or Angela or even your little brother." Dallas shrugged. "I guess I'm just here for you to blow off some of your steam. I know that you appreciate it, even though you're not going to tell me that." He paused shortly. "And that ain't no bullshit."
I couldn't believe how right Dallas was (for once). I couldn't think of much to say, so I just said the first thing that came to mind. "You know what, Dal? You're a good buddy to have."
"I sure am," Dallas said confidently. There was about five minutes of silence until I realized that Dallas had fallen asleep.
On any normal day, I would have shook him awake and shoved him off of my truck and told him to walk home. But today didn't seem like a normal day. I carried Dallas into the passenger seat of my car and he slept all the way to the Curtis house.
I walked right into the Curtis house and put Dallas onto the couch, putting his shirt on his lap and his closed switchblade in his hand. I didn't even bother to acknowledge the Curtis family, who was eating dinner in the dining room, staring at me. I wasn't in the mood to say anything to them.