Brass Knuckles Quotes

Some guys are the type of people who bring brass knuckles to a fight. I've always thought it prudent to bring some running shoes.

Weapons weren't in the class description. It's about basic self-defense and hand-to-hand." "Why bother then?" Adrian strolled over to a glass case displaying several types of brass knuckles. "That's the kind of stuff Castile does all day. He could have showed us." "I wanted someone a little more approachable," I explained. "What, like Captain McTropicalShorts back there? Where on earth did you find him anyway?" "Just did an Internet search." Feeling a need to defend my research, I added, "He comes highly recommended." "By who? Long John Silver?

It was a nice face, a face you get to like. Pretty, but not so pretty that you would have to wear brass knuckles every time you took it out.

Van Eck folded his soiled handkerchief twice, tucked it away. He nodded to the boy and the girl. “Do whatever you have to. The auction starts in less than an hour, and I want answers before then.” “Hold him up,” the stout boy said to the girl. She hauled Wylan to his feet, and the boy slipped a pair of brass knuckles from his pocket. “He’s not going to be so pretty after this.” “Who is there to care?” Van Eck said with a shrug. “Just make sure you keep him conscious. I want information.” The boy eyed Wylan skeptically. “You sure you want to do it this way, little merch?” Wylan summoned every bit of bravado he’d learned from Nina, the will he’d learned from Matthias, the focus he’d studied in Kaz, the courage he’d learned from Inej, and the wild, reckless hope he’d learned from Jesper, the belief that no matter the odds, somehow they would win. “I won’t talk,” he said. The first punch shattered two of his ribs. The second had him coughing blood. “Maybe we should snap your fingers so you can’t play that infernal flute,” Van Eck suggested. I’m here for her, Wylan reminded himself. I’m here for her. In the end, he was not Nina or Matthias or Kaz or Inej or Jesper. He was just Wylan Van Eck. He told them everything.

I stared straight ahead like a gangsta, never acknowledging the cast of Hannah Montana sitting next to me, and fantasized that they were staring at me out of the corners of their eyes thinking, Who is that woman with The Suit? Is she playing with his hair? Oh my God, she’s such a badass. He looks like some rich business executive, but Rocker Chick has her arm around him like he’s her fucking bitch. I’ll bet she has tattoos. And rides a motorcycle. And keeps a pair of brass knuckles in her vagina.

This particular brand of tyrant, though. Yikes,” Willa said. “I can’t take him seriously. He’s going to burn out before the first primary.” “Don’t count on it. There’s a lot of white folks out there hanging on to their God-given right to look down on some other class of people. They feel it slipping away and they’re scared. This guy says he’s bringing back yesterday, even if he has to use brass knuckles to do it, and drag women back to the cave by their hair. He’s a bully, everybody knows that. But he’s their bully.

He sighed and opened the black box and took out his rings and slipped them on. Another box held a set of knives and Klatchian steel, their blades darkened with lamp black. Various cunning and intricate devices were taken from velvet bags and dropped into pockets. A couple of long-bladed throwing tlingas were slipped into their sheaths inside his boots. A thin silk line and folding grapnel were wound around his waist, over the chain-mail shirt. A blowpipe was attached to its leather thong and dropped down the back of his cloak; Teppic picked a slim tin container with an assortment of darts, their tips corked and their stems braille-coded for ease of selection in the dark. He winced, checked the blade of his rapier and slung the baldric over his right shoulder, to balance the bag of lead slingshot ammunition. As an afterthought he opened his sock drawer and took a pistol crossbow, a flask of oil, a roll of lockpicks and, after some consideration, a punch dagger, a bag of assorted caltrops and a set of brass knuckles. Teppic picked up his hat and checked it's lining for the coil of cheesewire. He placed it on his head at a jaunty angle, took a last satisfied look at himself in the mirror, turned on his heel and, very slowly, fell over.

Unfortunately, a wife’s usual approach is to complain and criticize in order to motivate her husband to become more loving. This usually proves about as successful as trying to sell brass knuckles to Mother Teresa.

When you fight, though, that badge means you’ve gotta keep your gloves on. I don’t. I use brass knuckles.

Who’s that?” Nero asks as he tries to slip his hand into my pocket to grab my brass knuckles. I knock his hand away. “Rob, my second. Now quit trying to grab my nuts.” King gives us a look.

Out of the corner of her eye, Inej saw Jesper rise from his seat, but she waved him off and slipped her fingers into the brass knuckles she kept in her right hip pocket. She gave Rojakke a swift crack across the left cheek. His

You don’t need brass knuckles to discover if a man has a glass jaw. All you need to do is stick his face in a dishwasher, and then check for water spots.

How true it is that in this world we can never tell behind what corner Fate may not be lurking with the brass knuckles.

Let’s see, he had told me one night at our hotel’s bar, I’ve been beaten to death with brass knuckles by Robert Mitchum, knifed in the back by Ernest Borgnine, shot in the head by Frank Sinatra, strangled by James Coburn,

Though he could not remember how he had been injured or how long he had been unconcious, his first thought was to call the office and find someone to cover his shifts. He had a busy week of beating people to a bloody pulp, and his victims weren't going to punch themselves in the face. He couldn't leave his bosses in the lurch. He was evil, but he was professional. Perhaps it was his dedication to his work that had built him such an impressive resume: fifteen broken jaws, fifty-seven legs, a hundred arms, and more noses than he could count. He had knocked out thousands of teeth, pushed a few people off bridges, and once buried a guy in concrete up to his neck. He had been nominated for the Goon of the Year nine times by OUCH (Organization of United Criminals and Henchman), and had won its highest honor, the Brass Knuckle, seven times. At the office, he showed up early and left late. He ate his lunch on the job, frequently beating people as he ate his peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. You didn't get on the FBI's Ten Most Wanted list by taking a sick day!

Out of the corner of her eye, Inej saw Jesper rise from his seat, but she waved him off and slipped her fingers into the brass knuckles she kept in her right hip pocket. She gave Rojakke a swift crack across the left cheek. His hand flew up to his face. “Hey,” he said. “I didn’t hurt you none. It was just words.” People were watching now, so she hit him again. Regardless of the Crow Club rules, this took precedence. When Kaz had brought her to the Slat, he’d warned her that he wouldn’t be able to watch out for her, that she’d have to fend for herself, and she had. It would have been easy enough to turn away when they called her names or sidled up to ask for a cuddle, but do that and soon it was a hand up your blouse or a try at you against a wall. So she’d let no insult or innuendo slide. She’d always struck first and struck hard. Sometimes she even cut them up a bit. It was fatiguing, but nothing was sacred to the Kerch except trade, so she’d gone out of her way to make the risk much higher than the reward when it came to disrespecting her.

Alessandro shrugged and pushed the blade in, dragging it down the man’s skin, making him cry out. He struck him again with his fist, blood spurting onto Alessandro as well. “Did Arturo tell you that the mother of my child was in that limo? She’s carrying my baby inside of her, and that her son was in the limo too? I’m sure he did. I’m sure he left explicit instructions as to who exactly you were supposed to dispose of, didn’t he?” “He’ll kill me. I swear, he’ll kill me,” the man cried, tears mixing in with his blood. “Next, I’ll take an eye, you snivelling little shit!” Alessandro growled, raising his bloody blade to the man’s left eyeball. The unmistakable scent of urine filled the air. Alessandro stepped back in disgust and turned to Jason and his other man, Marty, two of the best Dardano soldiers, loyal and efficient. They took his cue and slipped on their brass knuckles. “Just say the words, ol’ boy, and we’ll stop this,” “Fuck you,” the man shouted. Alessandro smirked. “Such defiance for a man who just pissed himself.” He crossed his arms as Marty and Jason went to work. It only took a minute. “All right. Okay! Stop! Stop! Fine, I’ll talk!

He’d reached out to grab her by the collar of her shirt, but she’d dodged him easily. He fumbled for her again. Out of the corner of her eye, Inej saw Jesper rise from his seat, but she waved him off and slipped her fingers into the brass knuckles she kept in her right hip pocket. She gave Rojakke a swift crack across the left cheek. His hand flew up to his face. “Hey,” he said. “I didn’t hurt you none. It was just words.” People were watching now, so she hit him again. Regardless of the Crow Club rules, this took precedence. When Kaz had brought her to the Slat, he’d warned her that he wouldn’t be able to watch out for her, that she’d have to fend for herself, and she had. It would have been easy enough to turn away when they called her names or sidled up to ask for a cuddle, but do that and soon it was a hand up your blouse or a try at you against a wall. So she’d let no insult or innuendo slide. She’d always struck first and struck hard. Sometimes she even cut them up a bit. It was fatiguing, but nothing was sacred to the Kerch except trade, so she’d gone out of her way to make the risk much higher than the reward when it came to disrespecting her.

Out of the corner of her eye, Inej saw Jesper rise from his seat, but she waved him off and slipped her fingers into the brass knuckles she kept in her right hip pocket. She gave Rojakke a swift crack across the left cheek. His hand flew up to his face. “Hey,” he said. “I didn’t hurt you none. It was just words.” People were watching now, so she hit him again. Regardless of the Crow Club rules, this took precedence. When Kaz had brought her to the Slat, he’d warned her that he wouldn’t be able to watch out for her, that she’d have to fend for herself, and she had. It would have been easy enough to turn away when they called her names or sidled up to ask for a cuddle, but do that and soon it was a hand up your blouse or a try at you against a wall. So she’d let no insult or innuendo slide. She’d always struck first and struck hard. Sometimes she even cut them up a bit. It was fatiguing, but nothing was sacred to the Kerch except trade, so she’d gone out of her way to make the risk much higher than the reward when it came to disrespecting her. Rojakke touched his fingers to the ugly bruise forming on his cheek, looking surprised and a bit betrayed. “I thought we was friendly,” he protested. The sad part was that they were. Inej liked Rojakke. But right now, he was just a frightened man looking to feel bigger than someone.

Mark swings his own door open and meets us by the tailgate. "Why don't we ask Emma who she's coming with? I mean, it's her choice, right?" The look Galen gives me is clear: Take care of this, or I will. Or maybe it's more like, It would be my pleasure to take care of this. Either way, I don't want Mark taken care of. Standing between them, the testosterone-to-air ratio is almost suffocating. If I pick Galen, the chances of Mark ever calling me again are as good as Galen eating a whole cheesecake by himself. If I choose Mark, the changes of Galen not wielding his built-in brass knuckles are as good as Rayna giving someone a compliment. My desire to salvage this date with Mark is almost as strong as my desire to salvage his face from certain disfigurement. But salvaging the date as opposed to his face would be selfish in the long run. I sigh in defeat. "I'm sorry, Mark." Mark lets out a gust of air. "Ouch." Scratching the back of his neck, he chuckles. "I guess I should be more superstitious, huh?" He's right. I screwed this up. I should have salvaged the date, his pride. And I should have broken Galen's Royal nose with my own Syrena fist. I turn to His Highness. "Galen, could you give me a minute please? You'll have the next hour to talk to me since you're taking me straight home." Without a word, Galen nods and walks away. I can't quite meet Mark's eyes when I say, "I'm so sorry. I don't know what his deal is. He never acts like this." Except that time he beat Toraf like a stepchild on the beach when he kissed me. But only because Toraf betrayed Rayna. Right? Mark smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Can't say I blame him. I can already tell you're worth it. I just never had the guts to ask you out. Chloe threatened my life. You know that chick could hit like a man, right? She said you were too good for me. I think she was right." "Wh...what? Chloe knew you liked me?" "Yeah. She never told you? Course not. She thought I was a player." I not, still too stunned that my best friend also acted as my bodyguard without me knowing. "She did think you were a player. And she couldn't definitely hit like a man." "That's what my friend Jax says anyway." Then a little lower, "Geez, Galen's watching me like a hawk right now. He has serial-killer eyes, you know that?" I giggle. "What do you think he'd do if I kissed you good-bye on the cheek?" he whispers conspiratorially. "Don't worry, I'll protect you." He has no idea how serious I am. As he leans in, I brace myself. At the slightest spark of electricity, I'm prepared to turn around with my fists up. But the lightning doesn't strike. Galen is behaving for now. As Mark pulls away from his barely there peck, he sighs. "Do me a favor," he whispers. "Mmm?" "Keep my number. Give me a call if he screws up again." I smile. "I will, I promise. I had a good time tonight." Did the date and Mark's face get salvaged? Do I have a chance to redeem myself with him? He chuckles. "Yeah, glad we got to drive here from Middle Point together. next time, we'll make it a real adventure and take the bus. See you at school, Emma." "Bye.

The tools of their trade were simple, effective things: iron knuckles, saps and the like. But the iconic tool of the scuttler arsenal was a woven leather belt with a heavy iron or brass buckle used to decrease intelligence one wallop at a time.

I keep a pair of brass knuckles on my desk to remind me how to write.

I keep a pair of brass knuckles on my desk to remind myself how to write.

Carry Grip Big Stick Combat is principally composed of three grips: 1) stick grip, in which the right hand grasps the end of the stick; 2) rifle grip, in which the right hand is at the base of the stick, palm down, while the left hand is near the middle of the stick, palm up; and 3) bat grip, in which both hands grip the weapon like a baseball bat, with the left hand over the right. Yet there is another grip, carry grip, that must be considered. Unless you need a cane in order to walk, you will typically carry the baseball bat, cane, or long stick in the middle, grasped by your right hand if you're right-handed. It is important to train to strike automatically and non-telegraphically from carry grip, especially if you are attacked by surprise. Cover and Hit You are holding the stick in carry grip, with the right hand at the balance point near the middle of the stick. An attacker swings with his right hand at your head. Bear in mind that his “punch” might be a beer bottle, a set of brass knuckles, or a knife, so it is best to crouch down to try to evade it completely. Raise up your left elbow, placing your left palm over your left ear. This is a multipurpose shield of your head. Swing the end of the weapon into the opponent's groin. Strike repeatedly into his groin and midsection as necessary. To follow up, grab the base of the stick with the left hand. You are now in rifle grip, only in reverse, with the right hand forward and the left at the pommel. If you slide the right hand down into bat grip you will be in the traditional right-over-left grip. Although these grips are the opposite of what I have taught in the book so far, I believe it is best not to shuffle the hands. I believe your first priority is not to lose your weapon! I refer to the right hand grip at the base of the weapon as “anchor grip,” because it is firm and permanently fixed. No matter how the left hand moves, the right always maintains a solid grip. I have rejected the grip shifting of other styles because I want to avoid at all costs losing the weapon, particularly under the stress of combat. Crotch Lift This technique is a natural follow-up to the preceding Cover and Hit. This can also be used as a follow-up to the low thrust, the very first technique in the book. The crotch lift can also be used in close-quarters grappling. Pass the stick between the opponent's legs, high up near his crotch. You may naturally find yourself in this position after a thrust to the groin. Reach around the opponent's back with your left hand and seize the end of the stick, palm up. Bend your knees and lift the opponent by straightening your legs and lifting with both arms. Arch your head and body to the right in order to dump him. If he falls with a leg still entangled, you can squeeze in on the weapon in a crushing technique.

Just when I thought the night couldn’t get more exciting, Kai pulled a pair of brass knuckles from his pocket and slipped them on. Fuck me dead. Was he trying to make me embarrass myself?

Ding! Ding! Ding! I tapped the brass bell in rapid succession until Violet bustled in from the back room, wearing the blue-and-white pinafore that was the SugarWerks’s uniform and a frown that was not. The same age as Nic and I, Violet wore her amethyst hair spiked and a brass gearring stud on the left side of her nose. On one set of knuckles, BAKE was tattooed in elaborate black calligraphy; CAKE was on the other. Today she had an aquamarine bow pinned to the top of her head, a silver cupcake and crossbones marking the spot between the two loops of ribbon.

The proper bookmark for a Hunter Thompson book is a pair of brass knuckles.

Her feet moved into the vast space, but all she could see was Cyrus. He strode through the room the way a captain commands his ship. Was it possible his maroon bruise made him more dashing? He was a fine sight in a black broadcloth coat. Her salacious gaze dropped to a brass button lower on his waistcoat. The metal glimmered, winking at her with flirtatious intent very near the tuft of hair she remembered so well at his navel. The corner of Cyrus’s mouth crooked. If she looked ready to devour him, he read the message on her face, no words required. “Claire.” He said her name like a treasured sound. Then, her landlord bent low over her hand, kissing her knuckles and keeping her fingers in a tender hold. Her flesh sung a merry tune recalling how she’d gripped those broad shoulders of his in a fit of passion. Was that only two nights ago? Her cheeks turned hot at the memory. Cyrus rose to his full height, holding her hand. He planted a kiss on her forehead. “Mmmm…” he hummed approvingly. “You smell of almonds.” His lips lingered on her hairline, giving her another soft kiss. “And vanilla, I think. Something you cooked?” He breathed in her scent, standing close yet not intimidating in the least. His own smell was clean and starched with a hint of coffee. She reached high, touching his face like a woman with every right to partake of the feast he offered. “It’s face powder.” One finger stroked the smooth square of his jaw, her voice curving with amusement. “Today I join the ranks of ladies who meet for luncheon, and I can’t be sure if I’ve been lured here or goaded by one very challenging man put on earth to harass my senses.” She caressed his jaw, the grain of his skin smooth to the touch. He must’ve shaved in the last hour. His mouth quirked sideways, pressing the maroon bruise higher up his cheek. “Something tells me you’re the perfect woman to soothe such a man or put him in his place.” His pewter stare flicked over her exposed skin, settling on her cleavage. “As to your senses, I shall treat them with the utmost care.

Well, next time that Gerry Rees comes in, send him to me,” Lois threatened. “I’ll wait until he’s nice and distracted and then boom, I’ll pull out the brass knuckles!” “You’ll do no such thing!” Maggie warned her. “That’d hurt everyone’s business here! …And you got brass knuckles? Where the hell did you get brass knuckles?” “They been in the family for years. Grandpap had ‘em down on the docks.” Lois admitted. “Lois being the oldest, they went to her…” Margaret added. “Well, just the same, we can’t afford anyone leaving any traceable marks on the gentlemen around here.” --Maggie Pollaski with the Raterink Sisters from The Ragtime Coven

Come on Duchess, I’m down with you,” Satin announced as she pulled a pair of rhinestone brass knuckles from her Birkin bag. “Knuckle up divas!

I’m not going to bullshit and say I haven’t asked for help before because I have. ‘Can you help me bury this body,’ ‘I can’t find my brass knuckles, give me a hand would you,’ ‘I’ll need help setting this shit on fire.’ See, I ask plenty. Not your normal, ‘Can you help me move boxes’ shit, but it still counts.

The Big C would do what the Big C wanted to do. Max had lived eighty-two years’ worth of a rich life. No fires, no accidents, no brass knuckles, no knives and no guns had ever managed to put a permanent dent into the life of Max Flynn. Cancer.

beautiful blues in fine tunes; tunes of bass and brass brass knuckles clad in sweat and tears true to a son of pain; waving off the past into a new dawn a son of pain made much more, a son recognized i wasnt much, but i was me.

Claire duBois’s prostrating herself to an arrogant chauvinist like Graham was bitterly hard for her, especially since her star shone a thousand times brighter than his. But I’d remembered what Abe Fallow had told me. Keeping people safe is a business, like any other. You ask yourself, What’s my goal and what’s the most efficient way to go about achieving it? If that means you beg, you beg. Grovel, you grovel. If that means you bust heads, get out the brass knuckles. Cry if you need to. A shepherd doesn’t exist outside the context of his mission. So

Soon after Gruber got off the streetcar, he glimpsed movement out of the corner of his eye. Two young men jumped him, sending him sprawling to the ground. They pummeled his head with brass knuckles, smashing his glasses. Blood streamed down Gruber’s face. The two strapping young men fled into the night. “Hilfe!” Gruber shouted. A man riding by on a bicycle heard the elderly man’s plea for help. “My glasses, they are in pieces,” said Gruber to the man. The passerby found the remnants of Gruber’s steel-rimmed spectacles on the ground and did what he could to place them on Gruber’s face so he could see.

but I was drawn to the idea of working in Jersey politics, which has a reputation for being as brass knuckles as they come.

In one of the camp buildings, victims were squeezed together in extremely horrific conditions, with some rooms holding more than 45 people in very small closet sized rooms. They were even forced to clean the torture rooms. The prisoners’ faces were broken and mutilated from torture. Their blood stained the walls with pieces of skin and hair spread all around. The guards at the camp targeted the kidneys and hearts of the Bosniak victims when beating them to death. Prisoners were frequently beaten with spiked metal weapons and sticks, rifle butts, brass knuckles etc. They were “packed like sardines” with unbearable heat. In addition, they also died from suffocation due to a lack of oxygen during the night. Several survivors testified that they heard constant and intense wailing from people being beaten. They were in a state of endless fear. There are documented cases of prisoners being burned alive by setting tires ablaze around them. Prisoners were made to carry the dead bodies to trucks for disposal. Mass dead bodies were also bulldozed onto trucks. Every night, gunshots could be heard until dawn during mass executions. There were mounds of corpses everywhere on the camp, and Serb forces frequently shot ammunition into the bodies to ensure death.

HE HAD BEEN trained in a hidden monastery by the ninjas of Xi’en. He had studied yoga and meditation under an Avrantic guru. His strength, stamina and ability to withstand pain were legendary. He was as silent as a shadow of a black cat in the night, as deadly as a cobra’s fang. He moved like a panther, taut and sinuous. He could climb up rock-faces with his bare hands and stay underwater for hours without breathing. His skill and luck at love and cards was legendary, and he had almost beaten the Civilian at chess once. He was wondering what to wear. When in doubt, Black is the answer, the dance teacher in Ektara had said. He dressed, swiftly. It had been a long time since he had worn the original costume. Black silk clothes, padded boots. The cloth around the face, with slits for his eyes. The fire-resistant Xi’en lava-worm black silk cape. Of course, disguises and camouflage were fun, and often necessary, but this was his favourite. He strapped on his Necessity Belt. He had been all around the world and seen many beautiful things, but this was the finest example of vaman craftsmanship he had ever seen. He opened a trunk under his bed and started thinking about his assignment. His fingers, trained by years of practice, began sliding things into the right pockets on his belt. Into the little sheaths went the darts, the crossbow bolts and the blackened throwing knives. With practiced ease his fingers found the little pouches, side by side, one after the other, for the wires, the brass knuckles, the vial of oil, the sachet of poisonous powder and the shuriken, the little blackened poisoned-tipped discs the ninjas used. On his back was the slim bag that contained a little black chalk, his stamp and his emergency scarab. If he was killed or captured, it would fly to the Civilian. The message inside said Killed or captured. Sorry. He slung a pouch over his shoulder. It contained his blowpipes, ropes, strangling cords and cloth-covered grappling hooks. Over his other shoulder went the light and specially constructed crossbow. The flat bag filled with what he called his ‘special effects’ went on his back. He felt a little naked. He strapped on little black daggers in sheaths to his left arm and outer thighs. He tapped his left foot thrice on the floor and felt the blade slide to the front of the boot. He tapped again and it slid back to the heel. (...) He slipped on his gloves. Finally, he picked up the sheath that contained his first love. It was the one love he’d always been faithful to, the long, curved, deadly and beautiful Artaxerxian dagger that glittered and shone even in the candlelight as he pulled it out and held it lovingly. It was the only weapon he had never blackened. The Silver Dagger. He attached it to the Necessity Belt. Now he was dressed to kill.

Maddoc is the lead, he holds the key, but never steps ahead. Royce is the warrior, he bears the crest but never tries to rule. I am the anchor, I hold the brass knuckles, the loops signifying the fusion of our family—full circles, never one stronger than the other, a reminder we are equals. Always.

Here was both a very American personal success story and a glimpse of what post-democracy strongman rule might look like in the United States, signaled not by a uniformed march on Rome or a Reichstag fire but by a governor who became senator while simultaneously keeping the governor’s job, breaking the spine of democracy in his state with the help of a cadre of brass-knuckled bodyguards, engineering kidnappings of his enemies, and defeating or sidestepping multiple impeachments and indictments and investigations, all while soaking up adoration at a muddy rural rally with farmers or in a roaring ballroom full of tuxedoed and gowned admirers, his vast and disparate audiences too in love with his charm to much care what he actually meant. Somehow simultaneously cherubic and menacing in appearance, Huey Long was a populist, a rule breaker, a shockingly gifted orator, and a thug. He once commanded National Guard troops to mount an actual true-blue armed military assault on the municipal government of the largest city in his state. The man launched an armed invasion of New Orleans!—and got away with it. The best contemporaneous biography of Long in Louisiana was subtitled “The American Rehearsal for Dictatorship.

The other reason people borrow money from bankers who wear leather jackets and gold chains and carry brass knuckles.

You bastard!” I yelled. I’ve never been much of a fighter before—okay, I’ve always been a big wimp, I admit it—but I jumped on the guy’s back and sank my fangs into his neck from behind. He let loose with a high-pitched wail and forgot all about Victor as he tried to dislodge me. “It bit me! It bit me!” he screamed, sounding more like a little girl than a big tough werewolf. He spun in circles until I was dizzy, trying to get me off him. I bit him again even though his blood tasted oily and disgusting on my tongue. I sank my fangs in deep and snarled in his ear. Honestly, I hardly knew myself. Where was Taylor, the shy little girl who never stood up to bullies? Where was the doormat Celeste had stepped on for so many years? She was gone. In her place was a wild woman—a woman who cared enough to fight for her man. I’m a vampire, I reminded myself as I clawed Brass Knuckles in the face, taking grim satisfaction at the feeling of my nails sinking into his flesh. I can take these bastards!

I risked a quick glance over my shoulder as we raced through the door and saw some men in uniforms converging on the spot we had been fighting. The three weres were lying on the floor, all obviously injured. Three Wolf Moon’s leg was bent at a wrong angle and Tribal Tattoos was holding his arm and howling. Brass Knuckles was still scrabbling at his bleeding neck, sobbing like a little girl that he had been bitten.

COVID-19 outbreak made them a norm of public life. Many also wore helmets and carried melee weapons. Together, the crowd of around four hundred brought traffic to a standstill—by now a regular occurrence in the City of Roses, as Portland is known by. As usual, the police stayed away. They knew whom the streets belonged to. Working as a journalist with a phone and a new GoPro camera, I slowly made my way toward the front of the crowd. Some of the protesters recognized me. They glared and whispered in the ears of their comrades. Luis Enrique Marquez looked right at me. The 48-year-old Rose City Antifa member has been arrested so many times at violent protests in Portland over the past few years that he no longer bothers to wear a mask. Still, I ignored the stares and continued forward. By this point, the crowd’s chants had changed. “No hate! No fear!” they began shouting. Before I made it much farther, someone—or something—hit me hard in the back of the head. I was nearly knocked to the ground from the impact. Never having been in a fight, I naively asked myself in the moment: “Did someone just trip and fall into me?” Before I could turn around to look, a sea of bodies dressed in black surrounded me. In the background, I could still hear the crowd chant, “No hate!” Ironically, all I saw next—and felt—was the pure embodiment of hatred. Staring at an amorphous mob of faceless shadows, I froze. Suddenly, clenched fists repeatedly struck my face and head from all directions. My right knee buckled from the impact. The masked attackers wore tactical gloves—gloves hardened with fiberglass on the knuckles. It’s likely some of them used brass knuckles as well. I put my arms up to surrender, but this only signaled to them to beat me more ferociously. Someone then snatched my camera—my evidence. I desperately tried but failed to hold on to it. The masked thief melted into the crowd, a function of the “black bloc.” Another person ran up and kicked me twice in the groin. Someone bashed me on the head from behind with a stiff placard or sign.

even souvenir seekers. One of the worst contaminants was fellow officers, especially brass grandstanding if reporters were present and eager to grab a video bite to slap on the twenty-four-hour news cycle. One more glance at the circular coffin. Okay, Amelia Sachs thought: Knuckle time… A phrase of her father’s. The man had also been cop, a beat patrolman working the Deuce—Midtown South; back then Times Square was like Deadwood in the 1800s. “Knuckle time” referred to those moments when you have to go up against your worst fears. Breadbasket… Sachs returned to the access door and climbed through it and down into the utility room below the cellar. Then she took the evidence collection gear bag from the other officer. Sachs said, “You search the basement, Jean?” “I’ll do it now,” Eagleston said. “And then get everything into the RRV.” They’d done a fast examination of the cellar. But it was apparent that the perp had spent minimal time there. He’d grabbed Chloe, subdued