Two Men and The Sea

 The telly at the back of the shed was blaring out the latest and most important.

   '... and here goes Chugger from The Mighty Bonkers, he's got his hands on the ball, he's pelting down the field, but, oh! Look Out! That's his nemesis there, Pull-My-Finger, from the Fats, these blokes are gonna go head-to-head here, in this contest for the flag ...'

   ‒squeal squeal squelch squeeeerrrrrttttsssshhhh‒

   '... and interrupting this broadcast, with an important news update‒'

   Two heads swiveled around indignantly.

   'What!' said a bloke with a head like a cauliflower well past its use-by date. 'Hey! Get out of it!'

   'Oi!' said the other one, shouting at the telly, 'That's the footy! What are you doing? '

   'Stick your news up your arse!' yelled the first one.

   'Yeah! Too right!' the second one chimed in. 'We want footy! Get fu‒'

   '... another shark attack has taken place on the coast, on a popular beach ...'

   'What?' Joe, the first bloke, stopped and stared at the telly. He elbowed his mate. 'Hey, Robbo, watch this!'

   'Ow! Arseho‒ ... what?' Robbo rubbed his arm in annoyance. 'What'd you go and do that fo‒'

   'Shh!' Joe glared at his mate. 'Listen!'

   Robbo opened his mouth to reply, then shut it again with an audible smack. His eyes fixed on the telly. 'What the fu‒'

   'Quiet!' Joe snapped.

   '... attacked fatally on Oyster Beach at 7 pm local time ...'

   Both heads spun simultaneously and looked at the big clock on the wall. It read 7.15. They both knew it was no more than 10 minutes slow.

   'Bloody hell!' Joe exhaled sharply through his teeth.

   'Poor bastard,' Robbo agreed, 'Jeeez ...'

   '... thought to be a 6 meter white pointer, last seen around the mouth of the Oongalla River ...'

   Joe slowly turned to look at Robbo. Robbo turned his head towards Joe. They stared at each other. Then, very slowly, both heads turned away from the telly, and towards the opposite side of the shed. Past the boat they were tooling around with. Out of the open garage door, through the pool of light outside Joe's house. Across the road in the dark, and finally, to the black water of the river, lapping gently around the bank on the other side of the road.

   The River.

   Joe turned back towards Robbo. He looked at him and blinked. Then, very slowly, he lifted up the beer can in his hand, put it to his mouth and tipped it back. And more. He drained the whole thing, then, with a practised move, squashed it and chucked it over his shoulder. With a dull aluminium splat it landed on a pile of others just like it building up in the corner, that night's harvest so far.

   Robbo lifted up his and took a sip, then lowered it. He stared at Joe. 'What?' he said, uncertainly. 'What are you looking at me like that for?' The telly resumed the football broadcast, but neither of them was paying it any attention anymore.

   'Did you hear that?' Joe inclined his head towards the telly.

   'What, the shark attack? Yes, of course, poor bugger.'

   Joe jerked his head towards the other side, with the heavy momentum of a buffalo that's just been shot and is wondering just what is going on. 'That's the river just there,' he said ominously, leaning heavily on the there.

   'Yeah, I know.' Robbo frowned. 'It's been there for a while, you know.'

   Joe turned his gaze back to Robbo. 'That fucking murdering thing is just there, swimming around, eating people.'

   Robbo shrugged. 'Well, that's what they do for a living, you kno‒'

   'It's not good enough!' Joe snapped, something mad glinting in his left eye.

   'Wha‒'

   'Something's gotta be done about it!' Joe rolled his shoulders back, dropped his chin down, belched loudly, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 'No bloody government mob are doing anything about it!'

   'Well, I'm sure they do what they ca‒'

   'It's not good enough!' Joe shouted. Droplets of spit flew past Robbo's ear; a few stuck in his eye.

   'No, but‒' Robbo began, wiping the spit from his eyes.

   'So, let's do something about it now! Here and now!' Joe grabbed Robbo by the shoulders and shook him to and fro. Robbo's head bobbed up and down like the arse of a kangaroo in a bush fire. 'You and me!'

   'Wha-wha-wha-wha‒ stop shaking me! Get out of it!' Robbo wrangled himself out of the other bloke's grip.

   'Sorry.' Joe stepped back and frowned. He spun on his heel and pointed at the boat. 'Look, we've got everything we need here ...' He started pacing around it. 'We've got heavy gauge fishing line, massive great big bastards of hooks, plenty of bait from that wallaby you ran over the other day ...'

   'Ah yeah, that one.' Robbo grimaced. He hadn't seen it in the dark, and had run straight over it. It had comprehensively buggered up the front end of his car, but then, he reflected, not quite as badly as the front end of his car had buggered up the wallaby. There weren't a whole lot of bones left over in there, not in one piece anyway.

   '... we've got plenty of fuel ...' Joe patted the fuel container of the outboard motor, '... and, most importantly, we've got THIS!' He reached inside of the boat, triumphantly pulled out a shotgun, and waved it at Robbo.

   Robbo went green and ducked. 'Allright, all right!' he shouted, 'put that thing down! Don't point it at me, you idiot!'

   Joe looked slightly crestfallen. 'Uh, yeah, sorry, of course,' he mumbled. He pointed the weapon at the ground. Robbo carefully stepped past it over to the side, and stood looking at his mate sideways.

   'So, you wanna go and get that bastard, is that what you're saying?' Robbo said.

   'That's right!' The fire returned to Joe's speech, slurred though it was. The mad gleam came back on in his eyes. 'We go and get that fucker, and finish him off!'

   Robbo looked doubtful. 'You reckon?'

   Joe nodded with grim conviction. 'I reckon,' he said. 'Gimme a hand with that trailer.'

 

Half an hour and three beers each later they were bobbing up and down on the black water of the Mighty Oongalla River. Having thundered down from the high mountains it had slowed to a stroll on the coastal plain and meandered its way lazily through sugarcane fields and cattle paddocks, to eventually widen out to several hundred meters at its mouth, and empty itself into the ocean. It carried untold millions of tons of sediment, fertiliser, chemicals, diesel, plastic, dead animals and miscellaneous human rubbish, like a relentless and never-ending open sewer. There was so much shark food in there that new-coming sharks from out of town habitually had to fight their way over the prone and bloated bodies of their fellow species-mates that had gorged themselves to death, and frequently had to resort to making bookings by phone to reserve spots for dinner weeks in advance. The only thing surprising about attacks on humans, who collectively had embraced the notion that swimming at the beaches adjacent the river mouth was a sterling idea, was that they weren't more regular.

   The lights of the houses faded into the background. The night was black. The Milky Way stretching out high overhead gave off a bit of light, enough to be able to see that you couldn't see bugger-all.

   'Right-o,' Joe said grimly, as he took a swig from his 15^th beer that night, and put it down on the bench beside him, 'this is where that bloke on telly said it happened.' He cast his eyes around suspiciously.

   Robbo nodded doubtfully. 'Yeah,' he said, 'maybe ... there's a lot of room around here ...' He tugged his left earlobe. 'That thing could be anywhere.'

   Joe narrowed his eyes to slits and glared at him. 'Don't be like that!' he snarled. 'It's around here somewhere! I can feel it!'

   Robbo looked around him. The only thing he could feel was uneasy, with a nagging notion that he'd have been better off going home to bed. 'If you say so ...'

   'I do! Now, pass me that wallaby!'

   'What, all of it?'

   'Yes, all of it!' Joe snapped. 'We wanna catch a great big fucking thing, so we're gonna give it a great big fucking bait to put its teeth in!'

   'Rightio, rightio, if you say so ...'

   'I do! Now pass me that thing!'

   Robbo looked at his mate. The thought crossed his mind, not for the first time that night, that Joe might be taking this thing just a bit too seriously.

   'No worries, here you go.' He handed over the wallaby. Its legs and head wobbled in a seriously mangled sort of a way.

   'Thanks.' Joe grinned as he threaded a huge fish hook through the animal's arse, just above his tail. 'Here's a treat for him.' He stood up, lifted the dead wallaby up by the fishing line, and started to swing it around, heavily, above his head. The boat, a shallow aluminium hull, rocked alarmingly.

   'Hey! Watch out mate! Don't tip us in!' Robbo's eyes widened in concern.

   'Hah! Don't you worry about that!' Joe pulled his lips back and bared his teeth in a feral grin. 'Here we go!'

   He let go of the fishing line and the wallaby sailed through the night into the darkness. The line paid out till the dead animal hit the water with a muffled splash, and went slack. With a few quick turns Joe tied it off on the gunwale of the boat.

   'So now what?' Robbo wanted to know.

   'Now we wait,' Joe answered grimly. 'Here, you take this ...' He handed Robbo a gaff with a huge hook, 'and I'll use this.' He picked up the shotgun and clicked back the safety catch. He sighted down the barrel and smiled lovingly. 'This baby will sort him out.' He reached down next to him, picked up his beer can and took a long, deep drink.

   Robbo shrugged and did the same. After all, this was how they spent their weekends usually anyway: sitting in the boat with a line in the water, drinking beer, and, more often than not, catching bugger-all, except, he reflected, a cold on a wet winter night.

   Silence fell. The boat rocked gently to and fro on the night swell. Faint sloshing sounds came up from the sea surface. Nothing moved.

   ‒SNAP!‒

   With a shock the line pulled taught. The gunwale was tilted precariously close to the water. Robbo stood up and fell over, hitting his head on the bench he had been sitting on.

   'Ow! Fuck!'

   Joe had jumped to his feet. Now, knees braced against the sides of the boat, he rested the shotgun by his side and started reeling in the line, or trying to at least. No sooner had he tugged on it and started to roll it up than it was violently yanked out of his hands, causing the boat to tip sideways dangerously again.

   'Fuck!' Joe's eyes were wide open, like two bloodshot saucers in the night. 'This is big!' He turned to his mate. 'This is it, Robbo! I think we've got him, mate!'

   Robbo moved forwards with his gaff, ready to sink the massive hook into the side of whatever it was that they had snared. He peered down into the ink-black water, his heart racing fast. Could he see something there? What was that, underneath the water? Was that a shadow? Was it ...?

   'Watch out!' he screamed, and threw himself backwards. Just in time. As he did a giant shape leaped out of the water, three rows of jagged razor-sharp teeth glistening wet, mouth wide open. A powerful stench of half-rotten fish wafted from it. Robbo flinched at the smell, and for a crazed split second wondered how sharks could be taught to brush their teeth regularly, and how they'd go on dates with girl sharks with breath like that. Maybe it was attractive to the other sex. Maybe they got deodorant of Dead Fish, and lathered themselves with it before going to the movies, or wherever sharks went on their first dates.

   Half of the shark landed in the boat, the other half stayed in the water, twitching from side to side madly. The mouth snapped open and shut; the fishing line could be seen trailing from it, alongside of the tail of the wallaby, hanging out sideways. Water spilled over the side of the boat.

   'Aaaaaarrrrgggghhh!' Robbo screeched. He started pushing with the gaff. 'Get him out! get him out! He's gonna swamp the boat!'

   Joe scrambled back to his feet from where he had fallen, looking dazed. Blood was pissing out of his hands where the line had cut into it, and he was bleeding from a graze on his forehead, where he must have banged it on the way down.

   He reached down for the shotgun.

   'What are you doing? You can't shoot it like that!'

   'I'm gonna shoot that fucker!' Joe growled, and aimed down the barrel.

   'No, you can't, you fucking idiot! Get it back in the wat‒'

   Time stood still.

   The shark raised its head in slow motion, and looked at Joe with one mad, black eye.

   It turned its wide open mouth towards Joe.

   Joe's finger curled around the trigger.

   Sweat beaded on his forehead.

   The shark blinked.

    And rolled over.

   ‒BOOM!‒

   The shark reared up ...

   ‒BOOM!‒ Second discharge of the shotgun, emptying the second barrel.

   ... the shark slipped into the black water, and disappeared below the surface.

   'What have you done!' Robbo yelled at Joe.

   Joe looked confused. He lowered the shotgun. 'What the fuck ... I'm sure I got it.' He blinked, wiped the sweat out of his eyes. 'I missed it! I bloody well missed it!' His voice rose in near-hysteria.

   Robbo looked down. 'No,' he said evenly, 'you didn't miss it.'

   Joe stared at him. 'I didn't?'

   'No,' Robbo said, icily calm. 'No, you didn't miss it.' He took a deep breath. 'You hit it all right, you moron! Bull's eye!' he screamed on top of his voice.

   'What? Where? How?' Joe was perplexed.

   'There, you fuckwit! That's what you hit!' And Robbo pointed at the hull of the boat beneath their feet.

   It showed two perfectly round holes, the exact size of the large calibre slug they'd put in the shotgun.

   And water was pouring in in two beautiful fountains.

   Already the water came up to their ankles.

   'Whaaaaat!!!'

   'We're sinking!!!!'

   'Heeeelp! Heeeeelp!'

   'Too late to call for help now, you moron! Start bailing, quick!'

   'With what?'

   'Don't you have a bucket in your boat?'

   'No, I gave it to my missus to do her laundry in ...'

   'Use your hat then!'

   'I don't have a hat!'

   'Why not?'

   'Cos it's night time, I never wear a hat at night!'

   'Oh for fuck's sake!' Robbo rolled his eyes and ground his teeth. 'Go start that engine! Quick! Now! Get us out of here!' He ripped of his shirt, tore it in half and started stuffing it in the holes. It didn't make any difference. He pulled down his shorts.

   Joe stared at him. 'What are you doing?'

   'I'm pulling off my dacks, what's it look like, arsehole?'

   'But why?'

   'To bail with! Look!' And he fell to his knees, and started bailing with his shorts stretched tight in his hands, bare arse pointing up the sky. He looked up at Joe, still standing there like a stunned mullet. 'Now get that motor going and get us out of here!'

   'Uh ... yeah ... yeah ...'

   Joe staggered over to the stern of the boat. He pulled the starter cord a few times. The engine spluttered weakly. Robbo closed his eyes and muttered a string of curses under his breath, all the while bailing frantically.

   On the fourth pull the engine coughed into life.

   'Heurrggh heurrgghh ... puttputtputt'

   Joe spun the boat around and pointed it in the general direction of the land, a dark, vague shape in the night. He looked down. The water continued to rise.

   'Uh ... you might have to bail a bit quicker ...' he ventured, tentatively.

   'Shut up! Shut up and drive!'

   'Uh ... all right ...'

   'Get on the radio, send out a Mayday!'

   'Ah.' Joe looked shifty. 'Yes, well, uh hum,' he coughed. 'About that ...'

   'What?'

   'Yeah. That radio? You know?'

   'What about it?' Robbo glared at him suspiciously.

   'Yeah ... that's not happening. No radio.' Joe shrugged hopelessly.

   'What?' Robbo stared up at his mate, momentarily forgetting to bail. The water rose perceptibly. 'No radio? Why not?' He started bailing again furiously. The water level didn't change.

   'Uh ... yeah ... I sort of ... sort of sold it,' Joe looked away, 'uh hum ... to that bloke down the road. Huhum.'

   'WHAAAAAAT?' Robbo could feel himself getting close to panic and hyperventilation. He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe slower. 'All right, just drive, ' he said through clenched teeth. 'DRIVE! FAST! And,' he added as an afterthought, 'pass me a lifejacket.'

   Silence met that request.

   Robbo looked up in dread. Joe was standing next to the motor, steering, his eyes turned up to the sky, whistling, examining his fingernails and looking conspicuously innocent.

   'You're kidding me,' Robbo said in resignation.

   Joe looked at him from the corner of his eye, then looked away again quickly. 'Uhn Uhn,' he said, and shook his head dolefully.

   'Don't tell me. No lifejackets?'

   'That's right.' Joe nodded almost cheerfully.

   'And the reason?...'

   'Uh ... I gave 'em to the kids next door ... uh ... to play with in the pool ...' Joe's face went a deep scarlet, visible even in the dark night.

   Robbo screwed up his eyes and looked at him. 'When you say "gave" ...' he began.

   Joe squirmed. 'Well, actually, ... I sort of ... uh hum ... sold 'em'.

   Robbo took a deep breath, and opened up his mouth to vent with a string of the most inventive, vituperative and vindictive invective the world had ever seen.

   ‒SNAP!‒

   The boat rocked violently to the side. The two blokes fell to two opposite sides and hit their heads together. The fishing line tied to the side of the both pulled taut. The boat listed dangerously to the side of the line.

   'Ow!'

   'Watch out!'

   The tiller spun around, and the outboard motor with it. The boat started gently going around in circles, tethered to the fishing line on its gunwale. More water gurgled in.

   'Don't let go of that thing! Get it!'

   'Bail, bail! Bail, you bastard!'

   They scrambled back to their positions, Joe latching onto the tiller like a drowning man onto a punctured li-lo, Robbo on his knees, lily-white arse up, bailing furiously. The boat straightened up, and, very slowly, started veering off to the side of the fishing line. Away from the lights of the river mouth and the town.

   They stared at the line, taut as a bowstring.

   'That bloody thing is towing us!' said Joe, stunned, his mouth wide open. A thin thread of drool leaked out of it.

   'No shit, Sherlock! Of course it is!' Robbo looked around wildly. 'Cut it! Cut the fucking line! Where's the knife?'

   He turned his eyes on his mate. For one heart-stopping second he expected him to admit to having flogged his knife off to a delegation of visiting Sword Swallowers, passing through town on their way to their annual convention and looking for some light starters. Then, to his relief, Joe nodded, tied off the tiller, and scrambled over to the bow of the boat.

   He leaned over the gunwale, knife lifted up in his hand.

   He brought his hand down ...

   ‒BOONG!‒

   A massive blow rocked the side of the boat, just below the gunwale.

   The gunwale bucked up, and hit the underside of Joe's hand, holding the knife.

   His hand opened under the impact.

   In horror Robbo watched the knife sail through the air in slow motion, then disappear in the water. Joe sat on his arse in the hold, looking perplexed.

   'Nooooo!' Robbo fair howled, tears in his eyes.

   Joe stood up, pale as a ghost now. 'What the fu‒'

   'What do you think!' Robbo screamed. 'You've lost the bloody knife, you idiot!'

   Joe looked crestfallen, and like he was about to start crying.

   'Wha‒ ... what do we do now?' he stammered, turning to Robbo with big round eyes.

   'I don't know! I'm bailing, if you hadn't noticed!'

   Joe looked from his mate on his knees in the water to the line tied to the gunwale, and back again. He shook his head. 'We're fucked now,' he said, 'we're fucked!' He started hyperventilating.

   'Ah for fuck's sake, don't have a bloody hissy fit now!'

   'A what?'

   'You heard me!'

   'I'm not ...'

   'Don't come the raw prawn on me! This was your idea, arsehole!'

   Joe opened his mouth to retort, then snapped it shut again. His mate did have a point there. Instead of arguing, he threw himself upon the line, and tried to untie the knot. His fingers plucked and picked and slipped and slithered, all to no avail.

   'It's not working! It's not working!' Joe turned to Robbo, real panic now in his eyes.

   'Fancy that! Who would've thought! That bloody thing has been pulling on it for half an hour! Of course it's not working, you fuckwit!'

   Joe's mouth became a grim line. 'Look mate, I've just about had a gutful of your‒'

   'Use your teeth!'

   '‒bullshi‒ ... what?'

   'Use your teeth! Chew through the line!'

   'My teeth?' Joe's mouth hung open again, showing a prize cross-section of the very things in question.

   'Yes! Your teeth! That's the only thing left!'

   'You're kidding? That's monofilament line, that i‒'

   'Either you use your teeth to get through that line, or that bloody thing in the water is going to use its teeth to get through us!' Joe shut his mouth again, and considered the point.

   'All right, all right!!' He threw himself on his knees, and started chewing like a crocodile on his first feed after a six-month fast.

   After a good five minutes the line finally snapped. They both watched it slip into the black water.

   Joe lunged for the tiller, splashing through the water in the hold, and wrangled it in the right direction. The bow slowly spun, and pointed towards the river mouth again. The engine's revs increased, the hull lifted fractionally higher out of the water, and they picked up a tiny amount of speed.

   Robbo bailed furiously.

   They made tracks. A long thin trail of white foam strung out behind them into the dark night.

   Robbo bailed more furiously.

   The water inside of the hull rose.

   The water of the river stretched out black and dirty in front of them, as they putt-putted through the heads.

   Joe looked left, right, left again. In front, behind. No tell-tale triangular fins anywhere.

   He took a deep breath. 'All right,' he said finally, 'I think that's i‒'

   ‒BOONG!‒

   'Aaaaarrrrggghhh!' They fell over again. The tiller spun. The boat headed for the rocks of the breakwall.

   'Don't let go of that thing! Grab it!' Robbo yelled, back on his knees, digging his shorts into the water. It rose more.

   Joe latched onto the tiller again and wrestled it in the right direction.

   ‒BOONG!‒

   ‒BOONG!‒

   ‒BOONG!‒

   The boat flew forwards with every new hit. Joe heaved on the tiller with all his might, and narrowly managed to steer past the rocks of the breakwall, black, ominous-looking, and chockablock of razor-sharp oysters.

   The boatramp was coming into view now, there, not far from a street light.

   The water rose over their knees.

   The boat slowed noticeably.

   Robbo started sobbing and moaning, and bent himself over his bailing work like a lapsed alcoholic breaking into a pub. Water flew everywhere. He couldn't sit on his knees anymore, had to stand up to keep his head above the water. It came up to his thighs. He redoubled his efforts, chucking short-loads of water left, right and centre. A lot of it fell back into the boat.

   The water rose more.

   The boat ramp was no more than 50 metres from them now.

   40 metres.

   30.

   The water got up to their waist, and drew level with the gunwales of the boat. Robbo shoved his shorts into the water in front of him, behind him, all around him now, with lightning speed, tears streaming down his face.

   'Nononononononono fuckfuckfuckfuck ....'

   20 metres to go.

    ‒BOONG!‒

   The boat barely moved under the impact of the blow now, it was so full of water. It slowed down to a snail's crawl.

   15 metres.

   Puttputtputt ... putt ... pwuuu‒

   Robbo stopped bailing, jerked his head around to Joe, and stared at him in horror. Joe stood clutching the tiller, frozen, wide-eyed.

   Pwuuuuuttt ... pwuuuurrr ... pwuurrgghh ... pwfffft. The motor cut out.

   Nothing.

   Silence in the black night.

   The boat, having been clutching desperately to its last bit of momentum, finally gave up, and stopped moving. Forward, at any rate. Instead it started moving downward. The gunwales disappeared under the water.

   10 metres.

   Joe opened his mouth in slow motion, as if caught in a bubble of frozen, soundless time.

   ‒BWONGWONG!‒

   It hardly made any sound anymore, the boat now being completely submerged. But they felt it in every fibre of their body.

   Time snapped into existence again.

   'Jump! Swim!' Joe screamed.

   'Save yourself!' Robbo howled at the same time.

   They waded, scrambled, struggled, fell, elbowed each other, clawed at each other's throats trying to get out; crawled onto the bow, now well underwater. Robbo got there first, found the submerged bow with his feet, stood up, kicked off, hit the water with a great big belly flop, his white, bare, short-less arse sticking out above the black water like the reflection of the moon. Joe was a split second behind him, wobbling off to the side, almost landing on top of him.

   5 metres.

   They struck out and splashed desperately through the water, great big erratic arm strokes, breaking every swimming speed record under the sun.

   2 metres.

   Robbo's feet felt the concrete of the boatramp under foot. He stood up, lunged through the water, crying, sobbing, howling, snot leaking out of his nose in great big green blobs. Splashed through the water, sprinting for the shore, Joe right behind him, moaning, spitting, weeping.

   0 metres.

   They bolted out of the water like their pants were on fire, or, in the case of short-less Robbo, his arse itself.

   Their knees buckled, their legs gave way beneath them. They fell to their knees on the concrete ramp. They squirmed and wriggled further up, to get as far away from the water's edge as possible.

   They looked at the black water in front of them.

   There, in front of them, the sharp triangular fin cut through the water, one circle, two circles. Gone. Vague concentric ripples drifting off and fading fast.

   Quiet.

   No sign of their boat.

   The two blokes lay on their backs, gasping for breath, sobbing, heaving.

   After a little while Joe stuck his head up and looked at the water.

   'Hey, Robbo,' he said weakly.

   'What,' said Robbo, his eyes squeezed firmly shut, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.

   'Hey,' said Joe again, and attempted a laugh. It sounded like a drowning cat. 'Hey ... we showed that bastard, didn't we!' He laughed shrilly now, verging on the hysterical. 'We almost got him, didn't we! Didn't we?!'

   Robbo lay back with his eyes closed tightly. He took a deep breath.

   Rose up on one elbow, painfully, turned to the other bloke.

   Opened up his eyes and looked at Joe, the other bloke's cheeks covered in blood, sweat, snot, boogers and tears.

   'Yeah,' he said. And lifted up his other arm, and punched Joe squarely in the face as hard as he could.