Gristle

The blow left him sprawled out on the kitchen floor. He was at the mercy of his attacker, who now swung his heavy boot into his face. At the same time the man threw the earthenware plate at his head. It struck him with a *thud* on his crown, then broke in two as it hit the floor.

As he stumbled out the screen door and collapsed on the steps, breathing laboriously, a steady flow of blood from his head wound blinded his right eye.

"Speak!" the attacker demanded. But still he lay silent, unmoving. A kick to his ribcage sent him tumbling down the remaining steps, and sharp pains through his body.
He began to crawl, there was a space under the wooden staircase where he could seek refuge. But his attacker was not finished, with a single bound the man arrived by his side and grabbed his sweaty collar with a massive hand and drug him on his back toward the shed.

He was unable to breathe. He tried to roll over and gain his feet, but the gravel was loose and offered little traction. The rocks were bruising his back. His vision was blurred and dimming as he began to lose consciousness. But suddenly his head fell to the ground. He now lay along side a pile of old tires to the left of the shed door. The man disappeared into the shed, but emerged almost as suddenly, wielding an axe.

A swing like a golf club took a divot out of his back. He was almost past feeling.
Now the man stepped on his throat, raising the axe high above his head, the man spoke one last time.

"That'll be the last time you steal my pork chops, you worthless mutt."