ONCE AGAIN, I wondered if Mikaela was watching from her heavenly perch, because for this battle I had definitely chosen flight over fight.
I wasn’t running away from the danger. I was just trying to wear the danger down so it wouldn’t be quite so dangerous. I was hoping to nudge Number 1’s Level 11 strength down into the single digits.
And it looked like my plan was working.
The Prayer’s gnarly red dreadlocks were dribbling droplets like waterlogged anchor ropes. The beast was breathing hard. Its asparagus stalk of a body kept bellowing in and out.
Meanwhile, I kept flitting, floating, and fleeing all night and into the early hours of the morning. The Prayer never stopped chasing me. We went trampling through the old farmhouse so many times, there wasn’t much left of it besides a pile of smoldering rubble and a freestanding fireplace and chimney. Number 1 had bashed down all the walls in his quest for what it wanted: me.
I took a few pit stops, now and then, to replenish my energy by grabbing a bite to eat. The rotting fast-food garbage littering the sides of the road became my Quick Pick Mini Mart.
Yes, it was gross. Especially when you realize a fly can only eat liquids. They turn solid foods into a liquid by spitting or vomiting on it. After that, they use their tongue like a straw to suck the slop up.
After a while, I decided I’d just go hungry and skip the moldy french fries and rancid Whoppers with half-chewed lettuce and tomatoes until after I defeated The Prayer.
Yes, I wanted to eat. And, believe it or not, garbage smells great when you’re a fly. But always getting what you want—when you want it—is a horrible way to live your life. Especially if what you want is no good for you, or if it constantly escapes your grasp.
For The Prayer, I was a little of both.
He couldn’t quite catch me.
And even if he did, I definitely wouldn’t agree with his stomach. The second he swallowed my fly body, I’d pull one of my classic moves and morph back into being a full-sized teenage boy, which would definitely bust open his gullet.
You see, my father taught me to fight with my head as much as my hands.
No way could I ever beat The Prayer in any kind of hand-to-hand combat or martial arts duel. Not even if I summoned up Joe, Willy, Dana, and Emma. The Prayer would outmuscle all of us combined.
To beat this brute, I had to count on the muscle in my head.