Chapter 1: The Busted Knuckle
The workbench at the back of Bay Two was an altar of hardened steel, caked grease, and decades of spilled solvents. Bug stood over the massive Wilton vise, a ball-peen hammer in one hand and a heavy drift punch in the other.
His task was simple, according to Vinnie: knock a frozen, rusted kingpin out of a '68 Ford twin-I-beam axle. Vinnie was across the shop, his back turned, deep in the wiring harness of a Cadillac.
"Don't tap it like you're putting a baby to bed, Bug," Vinnie called out without looking up. "Hit it like it owes you money."
Bug gripped the hammer tighter. His forearms were already burning from two hours of heavy swinging. Sweat stung his eyes, blurred by the haze of exhaust and the heat of the afternoon. He wiped his face with his shoulder, reset his stance, and brought the hammer down with everything he had.
The hammer didn't hit the punch.
The drift slipped on the pitted, grease-slicked face of the kingpin. The heavy steel head of the ball-peen hammer came down sideways, smashing Bug’s right index and middle knuckles squarely against the jagged edge of the forged steel axle beam.
The sound was a sickening, wet thud.
Time slowed down. Bug dropped the hammer. It hit the concrete floor with a deafening clang that seemed to echo forever. For three seconds, there was no pain—just a cold, numbing shock. Then, the blood arrived. It didn't ooze; it welled up instantly from a jagged tear across his skin, bright red and dripping rapidly onto the greasy workbench.
Through the skin, Bug could see a flash of white bone. The pain hit him a second later, a white-hot, throbbing wave that made his stomach violently heave.
He instinctively grabbed his wrist, squeezing hard to stop the shaking, his teeth grinding together so tightly his jaw ached. He looked across the bay. Vinnie was still working on the Cadillac.
Man up, Bug thought, his mind racing. You cry, you pack your bags. You ask for a doctor on day one, you're done.
In 1973, showing vulnerability in a garage was a firing offense. You sucked it up, or you went back to delivering groceries. Bug grabbed a handful of blue paper shop towels, wrapped them tightly around his hand, and squeezed. Within seconds, the blue paper turned a deep, dark purple.
Vinnie’s boots crunched on the gravelly floor behind him. "You went quiet, kid. Did you get it out or—"
Vinnie stopped. His sharp eyes immediately dropped to Bug’s left hand holding the blood-soaked mass of paper towels, then to the fresh red spatters on the concrete.
Bug didn't look up. He kept his eyes locked on the vise, his voice tight and strained. "Just a scratch. I'm fine. I can keep swinging."
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