2.d.ix
Blood streamed
down Mr. Jones’s face but it was impossible to tell if it was his blood or
blood from the customers that The Greed had pummeled him with. Mr. Jones had taken at least six good, hard
hits from these patron fists. His vision
had gone blurry on the second shot when the forehead of a fat woman slammed
into his left temple. The next few
swings either missed or glanced off his body, but a third, direct hit, left him
with a high pitched ringing sound in his ears.
Mr. Jones
scurried along the floor, The Greed’s fists hammering all around him destroying
store shelves and merchandise displays.
When he reached the checkout stands, Mr. Jones groped for a donation
jar, the image of the bald little girl was the last thing he saw before a
large, well-muscled man who’d been stocking up on body building supplements,
connected with Mr. Jones’s face.
