Sometimes, I think I’m doomed to go through life without having my humor understood or appreciated.
“You think you can take all three of us?” Brody demands.
I scoff. “I know I can.”
I don’t, actually.
Sometimes, my confidence can get the better of me. It’s a blessing and a curse.
At least, that’s what Ma told me when I was a boy and I declared that I could scale the west wall of the Manor with only my bare hands. That ended poorly.
I lift my hands and gesture for him to come at me.
“Come on, little stray,” I taunt. “What are you waiting for?”
Spurred on by the insult, he charges at me with a war cry that’s as hilarious as it is pathetic. I’m laughing when I side-step his attack and swipe his feet out from under him.
As he keels over, I land a punch square on his oversized nose.
With a pained screech, he falls to the ground on his side.
His henchman watch with narrowed eyes, tense and weary. They’re unsure whether to step in or let this fight take its course.
They are true mafia after all. And all mobsters tend to respect a good one-on-one.
I do a little jump in place to shake out my muscles.
Fuck, it feels good to hit something.
Especially something as useless as the empty-headed prick I just sent to the ground.
“Is the fight over?” I ask. “Or are you planning on getting up at any point in the next hour?”
Brody gets to his feet, his hand clamped down over his bloodied nose. But I know I haven’t broken it. I didn’t feel the cartilage give way under my knuckles.
“That was the last time you hit me,” he declares. “That was the last time I let you get in a punch.”
“I like the confidence,” I tell him. “But the thing about confidence is that you need to back it up with skill.”
“I’ve got plenty.”
“You’ve got piss and shit,” I reply.
Yeah, I’m trying to provoke the fucker. That’s the easiest way to win this fight.
Some men lose all sense of themselves when they’re insulted. They concentrate more on their hurt pride than the enemy in front of them.
He’s about to charge at me, but I’m not worried. I already know his next move.
He’s going to come at me from the left and then feint to the right. He’s going to try and attack my legs like I did to him.
He wants to be able to look down at me and laugh.
I can see it in his eyes.
Poor, delusional motherfucker.
He gets ready, shifting his weight. I load my back foot, prepared to move as soon as—