In Carmell's head, he saw himself kicking the Sergeant square in the sack and incapacitating the oaf at his throat with a bowling pin or a golf club or something. In a different fantasy stemming from the back of his mind, he also made Venctin cry.
The reality was much less glib, however. He threw back his head and crunched it into Venctin's nose, which abruptly broke and sent blood spewing down Carmell's neck. Venctin's stunned grip loosened just a bit, and Carmell wasted no time in freeing one arm and slipping loose his belt. He gripped it tightly at the tongue end, then swung it up before Venctin could act. The metal at the buckle end was weighted just enough to split the skin of Venctin's eyebrow upon contact, and his head snapped back violently as blood spurted out. Carmell squatted and grabbed for the dazed Venctin's dangling tie, which he secured in his fist, and drove him forward and down, perfectly slamming Venctin's forehead off the edge of Carmell's rental. Carmell let go of the tie and let the bleeding, unconscious man slide to the ground by the front wheel. Jones had opened his mouth to spew forth some authoritative verbal sputum, but Carmell took a step forward and extended his arm and finger with such force that would have made the Mighty Thor pause. Jones, however, was not in the same league as Thor, and he nearly shat himself.
Carmell, who had reached the point of not-fucking-around about the time Venctin was choking the life out of him, grit his teeth and spat, “Don't even think of it! If you try detaining me I will sue your ass for harassment and assault and any other bullshit thing the lawyers can dig up! This was clearly self-defense, as witnessed by how many? A dozen people? More?”
For the first time, Sergeant Jones noticed the crowd of citizens gathered at the other end of the street, some of them with their cell phone cameras pointed in his direction, and his fool-proof plan to remove that asshole Carmell from his town all swirled down the drain like so much sewage. So he just stood there, indecisive and impotent for all to gawk at, awaiting his next order, apparently.
Carmell, meanwhile, had already decided this conversation was over, and had turned his back and walked over to the driver's side door, where he pushed Venctin's prone body farther into the street with his foot, away from the wheels, and grunted, “Move,” as he did so.
He gave Jones a hard stare-down as he slid into his seat behind the wheel, but before he closed the door he barked through the open window, “Hey Jones! Don't you worry about me, you've got enough problems to deal with in this fucked up little town of yours!”
And, careful not to give that little prick anything to hold against him, Carmell obeyed every driving protocol to the letter as he drove away, leaving Sergeant Jones in a very unfamiliar place: dumbfounded and clueless. Carmell found that officious schmucks were like that more often than not anyway: essentially with their dicks in their hands.