The Shin-Kicker Again? Part II

When I reached the alley I heard a muffled yelp and looked around the corner just in time to see the shin-kicker tumbled on the ground with two guys on top of him and a third ripping the backpack off his shoulders.

I wanted to cheer. Finally someone was getting what they deserved. Let them take his textbooks. He could spare the couple hundred bucks of cash. Let him get tripped up in a dark alley on a muggy Missouri evening. It served him right.

It was like a club descended out of the darkness and crashed against my skull.
“Remember the mission!”

The mission? No way. No, please. The mission didn’t include the shin-kicker. Not him! I was supposed to protect people. That meant normal people. Not people who go around kicking immigrant gorilla’s shins for no reason. Come on. Please. Be reasonable.

No good.

With my most fear inspiring gorilla howl I sprang around the corner of the alley, both arms flailing to increase the perception of my size, praying that the dimness of the night and the padding in my costume would combine to form the image of an invincible foe in the minds of the attackers.

The guy with the backpack, who had been charging toward the alley entrance froze. I couldn’t really tell how big he was. All I saw were the whites of his eyes. In a second he had dropped the backpack with a thump and whipped around down the alley. The two thugs on top of the shin-kicker raced after him, slowed only momentarily by the shin-kicker grabbing at their heels as they leapt up.

I let out one more Gonga howl and stopped right in front of the shin-kicker. I held out my hand.

He paused for a second in shock, then grabbed it and jumped to his feet, almost
toppling me over in the process.

I pounded my chest and threw back my head in a vicory howl, then ran down the alley after the attackers. I knew a shortcut home from there. And besides, I really didn’t want to stay around and talk to the shin-kicker. Saving his books was one thing. Letting him thank me was quite another.

The Shin-Kicker

I suppose everyone has them. Those random people who walk into your life, kick you in the shins and calmly walk out again. My problem was that my shin-kickers didn’t always walk back out

I was in my Gonga suit during finals week of last semester, standing on Lowry Mall just opposite Memorial Union on the MU campus. It was cold, so for once I wasn’t sweating that much, which was nice. It was ten minutes before the hour, which meant that exams were just letting out and crowds of students were streaming past.

I passed out flyers as fast as my numb hands would allow, muttering something like, “Sell your books back to The Textbook Game.” It was a half mumble, half gorilla howl which I had been perfecting over the last weeks as I developed Gonga’s character.

A college kid with dark curly hair and glasses paused in front of me as I fumbled to pull the next flyer off the stack. His white teeth flashed as he suddenly swung his foot back and aimed a kick straight at my shins. I jumped backward, but not soon enough. His white and black track shoes connected sharply with my shins.

“Hey!” I shouted, forgetting about the gorilla voice.

The boy had already turned and plunged back into the crowd, laughing hysterically.
I teetered on the edge of charging after him, grabbing him by the back of the neck and putting him into a full nelson until he explained why in the world he decided to kick me. That’s when self control snapped in.

“He’s not the enemy,” a little voice soothed me. “He probably thought your gorilla suit would pad your shins more than that.”

“Hold it right there!” the voice in my head shouted. I had taken a running step after the kid. “Cut it out and simmer down!”

I listened now, fists clenched at my sides, the flyers forgotten. “Remember the mission.” I told myself. “Remember the mission.”