Here's another installment of the We Were Brothers series of semi-autobiographical fictionalized for Hollywood short stories.

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Smack!  The sound of the big lady's hand on the four year old's face was shocking.  The busy mall came to a momentary standstill.

 

Wolfie and I weren't having it, no way.  While everybody else was just looking, we started moving in on the abusive cow.  Wolfie called back over his shoulder, call Mall Security and tell them to call the cops.

 

Maybe I need to backtrack here.  I was Assistant Manager and Wolfie was an ace salesman, the only one better than me, in a women's high fashion shoe store.  We were both about 20 years old.   Keith was in school learning how to be a chef after I had fired him a few months earlier for being a slacker.  (What are friends for?)  Doug was night manager at the Scumberland Pastures Convenience Store around the corner from the mall.  Wolfie was a new friend, and all 5 foot 2 of him (including the white boy 'fro)  was smooth as silk.  Back to the story...

 

Wolfie got there first, grabbing the woman's huge flabby hand and pulling it behind her as he ran halfway around her.  I snatched the kid up on the run by and arced back to the store, leaving the crying tot in the care of Ditsy Deb, the other salesperson on duty who was in the back on the phone with Mall Security. 

 

By the time I got back to Wolfie and the Abusive Sumo bitch, he was in trouble.  She'd gotten a hold of his collar bone and was forcing him to the ground in a death grip.  Since I'd been raised never to hit a woman, I ran full on into her side with my shoulder low.  Her massive breast wrapped most of the way around my head as I pushed her back against the wall with sheer momentum.  It did the trick and Wolfie escaped her clutches but she got ahold of my suit jacket as I tried to escape and I was running in place a foot off the slippery floor like a cartoon character.

 

Luckily, she was distracted by the arrival of a contingent of Mall Security guards (3 pimply faced kids and a big man that had to be eighty years old).  Taking advantage of the opportunity, I slipped out of my jacket and gave the angry mammoth some space, poste-haste.

 

"What they do with my brat?",  " Where you go with my boy?", "You got no right, you take my boy away!" she bellowed.  She was moving toward the pimpliest of the pimply faced guards when the Police arrived.  They took our statements, arrested her and a female officer took charge of the little boy.  That was the last we ever heard of it. 

- tomketchfish