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John Glynn was there, watching me.
I gritted my teeth.
Made my choice.
“Okay. You want a fight? Go for it, shithead,” I said to Moose.
The laughter stopped.
Moose looked at me like the dumb animal he was. “What?”
“Bring it, asshole,” I seethed.
Moose just blinked. Then he tried to regain his footing. “You fuckin’ pussy – you think you’re fuckin’ tough, you’re just a – ”
“I fucked your mother last night, Moose,” I interrupted. “Lot louder than you, and a whole lot more action, too.”
That did it.
It took about three seconds for the insult to fully register – Moose’s brain worked at the speed of rush-hour traffic – and then I watched it all happen in slow motion.
His face crumpled into a raging snarl.
His cheeks flushed sweaty red.
He bellowed, just like his four-legged namesake.
He hoisted up that big, meaty fist and cocked it way back in the air. Telegraphed it from a mile away. He took almost a full second to do it –
Meanwhile, I launched myself in the air and headbutted his nose as hard as I could.
An audible CRACK!
A shower of blood.
Moose stumbled backwards and touched his face, horrified. Looked down at his wet, red hand as though he couldn’t believe it.
A split second later, I landed an uppercut to his jaw.
Laid him out flat on the floor.
I stood over him and screamed, “GET UP!”
He just lay there, cowering.
“GET THE FUCK UP!”
He whimpered and got into a fetal position.
I felt disgust – but not at him. At myself.
I’d been afraid of this piece of shit? Somebody not even man enough to back up his words?
Then I made a ‘mistake’ that wasn’t really a mistake; it was a calculated gamble.
I turned my back on him and walked away.
I heard him stumble to his feet, then run towards me.
