I reach for something, anything, I can use to fight him off me. My hand finds a cool metal bar under the workbench to my left. I grab onto it. I have no idea what it is, but I raise it in front of me like a shield.
That's when I realize it's the bolt cutters.
I grab both handles and hold them firmly. The guy pulls back to hit me again, and as his hand swats down toward my face, this time I block his blow, catching his thumb between the bolt cutters' short clippers.
I squeeze the handles together.
He cries out in pain. His thumb is caught between the clippers. Furious, he tries to pry his thumb loose with his other hand. But I don't let go.
As he tries to free himself, for a very brief moment, both of his thumbs are between the clippers.
With all of my strength I squeeze the handles together again, clamping down on his thumbs. He tries to pull away, but now both of his thumbs are trapped in the clippers.
With a furious heave, I squeeze again. He lets out a startled, shocked whimper.
Both of his thumbs fall from his hands.
One after the other, they land on my chest and tumble onto the floor.
He cries out in an extended wail. He raises his hands in front of his face. Blood slips down his forearms in waves. His pinkies, his only remaining digits, curl and writhe uselessly like the struggling pupae of some outsize insect.
He falls to the floor onto his elbows.
I slip free.
