Hungry Fists I

He itched the top of his bandaged hand.

The alley was silent. His cocky opponent’s cheerleaders fell silent, giving way to the ambulance and police sirens blocks from the dimly lit alley.

He cracked his blackened knuckles.

None of his fallen opponents shit-talking friends were stepping up.

“Whose next?” He quietly asked his remaining opponents.

He dropped their preppy pal faster than an ugly John’s paycheck on a two dollar whore.

He checked his lifeless opponent’s neck pulse with with his bare toes.

He’s breathin. Laid out on the ground like a seal out of water but breathin.

“Nobody?” I ask them.

His hands were trembling worse than before the fight.

He was grinding his teeth so hard the roof of his mouth felt tender.

He wanted to clobber each and every one of them but he needed them to engage him first. He needed to stick to his code and not start any fights.

“Cowards?” He tried egging them on. “Pussies?”

They weren’t budging. It frustrated him. Standing there frozen in fear was worse to him than running away.

He looked the biggest one among the four square in his eyes.

“You, big guy….” He pointed to the biggest one. “Make your mother proud.”

Big guy lowered his gaze to his friend and then to his feet.

“Uh huh,” He said.

Big guy nor none of these preppie college kids from the North side don’t want none of what he had brewing in my fists. All the smack talk from the bar earlier fell silent the moment they heard the crack of his fist connecting with their pal’s jaw. All the liquid courage evaporates from their pores as they watch their friend lying in a pool of his own blood and puke.

He cracked his neck.

He wasn’t the best at trash talking but he’d been practicing in the mirror. He thought if he improved his trash talk then it would increase his chances in finding a worthy scrap.

Clink.

Some guy staggered out the side door from the club and leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette.

“Fuck you looking at?” The new guy said as he lit his cigarette.

“I’m looking at you,” He replied.

“Well look elsewhere, bitch,” Cigarette guy replied.

“I’m no bitch,” He answered.

“Yet you respond to the title,” Cigarette guy blew smoke in his direction.

He recognized the cigarette sucking twerp. It’s the drunk at the bar with the guitar who was giving the waitress hell for no reason. But the guy looked familiar from elsewhere. He didn’t know that guy personally but he hated him with a passion. Something about him.

He kept his eyes on the guy hoping he would approach aggressively.

Gotta stick to the code.

“You some kind of fairy?” Cigarette guy tossed his cigarette to the side.

“Don’t you wish, punk,” He tightened fist.

The cigarette guy was talented at trash talk. He was impressed even though he wanted shove the lit cigarette up that guy’s nose and brand his tiny brain.

Cigarette guy looked down at the unconscious preppie and then the unconsciou’s preppies conscious friends and then at him and then snickers.

“Something funny?” He asked.

“The fact that you’re so sloppy,” He answers. “That’s funny.”

“Me, sloppy?” I replied.

“Yeah, big man,” Cigarette man said. “Looks like you had a little trouble putting the kid down. He get his hits off of you?”

He touched the faint strawberry mark on his cheek the preppie gave him at the beginning of their brief scrap.

It was true. His unconscious opponent managed to get a punch in. The kid had above average head movement and speed and could throw a straight punch. Without a doubt, the preppie had some pugilism training, as does most of these rich kids from the North Side do. But I easily caught on to preppie from the North Side’s movements and ended the fight quickly. He ended the fight quickly.

He didn’t like that cigarette sucking punk was making an already cheap victory feel even cheaper.

“That’s what I thought,” the cigarette sucking punk smirked at him before reentering the club– probably to harass more poor and defenseless waitresses. “Later, loser.”

I screamed. “I’m not a loser!”

How dare… I’ve only been defeated once in my entire life. He doesn’t know me. I’m a….

He punched the brick wall leaving a chip in the brick wall. He kicked the dumpster, nearly sending it rolling out of the alley like a semi with a drunk driver behind the wheel.

Call me a loser again!

He took a breath.

Dumpsters and brick walls weren’t going to hit him, though he liked the feeling of old brick against his knuckles and the feel of rusted steel against his bare toes.

“Take this weakling and leave,” He commanded the Preppies.

The preppies wasted no time grabbing their pal and fleeing the alley.

No more pounding on preppies. he had a new target.

He cracked his knuckles before re-entering the club.

It’s on sight whence he found the cigarette sucking punk. That punk’s going down the moment that punk raises his tobacco stained fists.

If cigarette sucking point didn’t want to fight, he would do whatever it took to make that that disrespectful bastard want to fight. He would never stop until he got his fight.

Read about the “cigarette sucking punk” right here.

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