D Knife fight, next to last chapter

Wonk, done with his meetings, was on his way to spend the weekend with Fozia. As he crossed 7th street a van left the road, went up on the sidewalk mowing down pedestrians, stopping suddenly when they hit the fire hydrant water rushing everywhere.

Two men exited the van yelling something, allahu akbar or some such, brandishing knives, one coming straight at Wonk. He calmly pulled his SCHMBS from his pack and assessed the situation, the attacker, three steps away and coming had what looked like a standard chef's knife and he was waving it wildly.

Ever since he had been whalloped by the Pussy Galore ruffians, Wonk had trained with his knife for 30 minutes a day as well as attending his escrima classes, time to put it to the test, a turn of his wrist and the heavy chopping razor sharp blade descended on the attacker's arm, removing the hand knife and all. He followed through with the motion, pivoted on his right foot and cut into his neck; attacker down, but while he was still standing he used his body as a shield to position against the other man.

The was a hunting bowie of some sort and he was holding it like a US Marine would. He had been told again and again to be wary of fighters that knew that position, hoped he had learned it from YouTube. He had the advantage of length, adversary, speed. Blade in his right hand, that side forward, left check hand protecting his heart, he steeled himself, he would probably get cut, the trick was not to die.

Fate had other plans, one of the guys run over by the van wasn't dead, stood up, big bear football player of a guy: bald, tufts of snowy blond hair, bright blue eyes, hit the attacker on both shoulder, some kind of double karate chop to the neck. A fraction of a second after the hit, Wonk shoved his big hulding blade, parallel to  the ground into his torso right between two ribs. Grabbed the handle pulled it way down scrambling the jihadist insides, then way up, all the time keeping a close eye on the bowie, ready with his check hand, then pulled out stepping back.

Wonk looked at the big man who looked at him, they both looked at the attacker, so far gone, yet still standing, amazing, and then timber. Wonk asked his phone, do you hear anyone else, listen for Arabic or screaming. No, it was finished. His big chopping knife, still dripping blood, dropped to his side, hand gripping it loosely. He was shaking, people who knew him well called it Wonking out. It's OK, It's OK, It's OK, the scene from Aviator played before his mind, not for the first time, hopefully the last.

Law enforcement came onto the scene. Wonk dropped the knife to the ground. He looked at the officer closest to him and was comforted by the small PSE medal, he moved his collar to show his. The officer looked at the medal, the carnage, Wonk, nodded and said quietly, I have to take the knife as evidence. It's OK, he said, almost in a trance, I have a dozen of them. Do you want the scabbard?

No need, said the officer, pulling on his evidence gloves after photographing the situation, taking a couple swabs of blood and then wrapping the blade. Mine's a Casstrom Forest, but I only have the one. Took off the gloves. Here's some baby wipes, looks like you came out clean, but you will feel better. Let's get a statement and I can let you go, you OK? Wonk nodded, yeah, I called my fiance' and she is coming with my car.