Bootsy was still mostly unconscious, so his addled mind couldn't be sure of the exact amount of time elapsed, but he was pretty sure that this asshole going through his pockets was the same asshole who just tried to brain him with a wrench or some other heavy, blunt object. He balled up his fists and struck up at the shadowy head , aiming dead-center for the nose, but his body was still rejecting his orders to kick ass, and his blow landed considerably lower than intended. He heard his assailant gag and cough, and Bootsy knew he had hit the man in the throat. Never mind, he was already throwing another punch with his left. This time his body obeyed, and there was a satisfying CRUNCH as his fist connected with the man's nose and instantly crushed it. Blood sprayed with tremendous force as the guy's head snapped back and sent a geyser of crimson straight into the air before he crumpled to the floor. He tried to scream but his ruined throat restricted all but a coarse gurgle.
Bootsy was immediately on his feet. Teeth gritted, his connected with a heavy kick to the fallen man's midsection, and let loose a triumphant grunt of pleasure, “Motherfucker!”
He kicked the man one more time, but with declining enthusiasm. It had just occurred to him that kicking this man felt like kicking a Wiffle Ball, and suddenly images of his mugshot displayed all over the nightly news for beating the shit out of some cancer patient coursed into his head. He squatted down, but still saw only swirling shadows. Eyes which refused to focus was a sure sign of concussion, and he put a hand down to steady himself. He called out softly, “Hey?”
No answer from the man. No surprise there.
Bootsy stood and looked around for some kind of light source: table lamp, track lighting, anything. He went to the the wall to look for a light switch, found one, then squinted as a hundred fluorescent tubesflickered to life. He put one hand to his eyes and blinked away some tears, but when his vision cleared his stomach sunk as if he had a gut full of concrete, “Aw shit.”
Lying prone on the floor by the desk was a frail black man whose body heaved with great difficulty every time he took a breath. At his side was an enormous Mag Lite flashlight and a large key ring. He also wore a nondescript gray uniform with a gold patch emblazoned on the shoulder which read ACME SECURITY. Bootsy raised his eyes to the heavens and wondered aloud, “Are you kidding me?” He had just gotten out of the pen, and even though he was trying to stay on the straight and narrow he was no doubt going to return because of an accidental manslaughter? What if his first kick had forced the old duffer's heart to seize?
“Fuck me,” he mumbled, and squatted down to tend to the man. He spotted some blood on the Mag Lite's lens, so at least he knew that it wasn't a wrench which had split his head open – if that was any consolation.
Which it wasn't.
An impressive gray afro poked out from under the guard's cap, and some distant and twisted part of Bootsy's brain said, Great, I've just killed Morgan Freeman! A closer inspection revealed that the man looked nothing at all like the famous actor. What he looked like, surmised Bootsy, was hamburger. Blood spewed all over the unconscious man's face, forcing Bootsy to roll him over to his side to prevent him from choking – or even drowning – on his own blood.