Tuesday 22 October 2019

Braveheart



“Come on so, you fat bastard!” I yelled, and he was a fat bastard. Hog-beast fat, with a triple-ring neck. Ok, he was bigger than me, but I was fit. He didn’t stand a chance. Particularly seeing as there were four of us, and only one of him. There were hands on me, my friends’ hands, stopping me from doing too much damage. The stupid thing was he could have avoided it all. All he had to do was apologise for knocking into me, and spilling my beer...then buying another of course.

“You total knob!” he said, and gave me the finger. I couldn't believe the gall of him, after all, I was the one who had been wronged. I started to struggle in earnest. Before, I might have been saying Let me go, while thinking, hold me back, but now I wanted at him for real. Its hard to describe how I felt; I was shaking, and I was buzzing with excitement. Everything was heightened, my body seemed to be swelling up on adrenaline and anger. I'd never felt anything like it. It was...I was...awesome. 

“At least I’ve seen mine recently,” I sneered, and looked down my nose at him.

“What did you say?” he demanded.

“You heard me, Shamu.” That one really got him. He reared back, his jaw trying to grind his teeth to dust.  

“Fuck you,” the big ape roared, then hocked a ball of spit right in my face. I was frozen for a second. I couldn’t believe it. Then the red mist descended. I slipped through my friends’ fingers and launched what could only be described as a majestic punch. I had every ounce of my strength behind it and I swear it actually whistled as it cut through the air. I threw myself into battle with a roar William Wallace would have been proud of. This was going to be as easy as hitting a barn door.

But then the door moved. Really really quickly as it happened. My hand was still arching toward him when I felt his knuckles connect with the tip of my chin. Things moved so quickly, they seemed to happen at once. His pudgy fingers were surprisingly solid on the underside of my jaw, jackhammering my teeth together. I was lucky not to have my tongue amputated. The bones in my legs seemed to dissolve and the power of my punch dragged me forward. His next blow found the end of my nose, and after that...well...let’s leave it there. 

My mates dragged me to safety, apologising to Shamu as they went. So, here I am, sitting outside a chipper with a blood-stained shirt and a sore nose. My mates are simultaneously concerned for me and angry at me. I don’t want to talk about it, because honestly, I thought it would have gone differently. I know you might expect me to feel shaken, or frightened, or ashamed; and I do...a little. But that was my first ever fight and I survived. I’d taken a punch…a real one, and I was still ticking. I guess like all normal people, I was trained to avoid violence; fed stories of one-punch killings and lives spent behind bars. But that was behind me now. The shackles of fear have been cast from my wrists.

As my friends yakked, I sat and rubbed my nose. They gave me guarded looks, wondering what was going on in my brain. I think they would have been surprised to find; I was looking forward to the next fat bastard who dared spit in my face.