“Hit me as hard as you can”

He hit me as hard as he could. Or tried. See, just because I’m drunk and depressed and a little desensitized to getting punched in the face doesn’t mean I can’t mess with Donnie a little. So I slip to the left as his right cross whooshes past my ear and connects with nothing. It’s a beautiful thing, the Slip. So simple and ergonomic and absolutely humiliating. I short-stepped forward and made a quick quarter turn to my right, leaving him exposed and driving the message home a little bit more.

“See, just because I’m drunk and depressed and a little…”

He hit me as hard as he could again. I fell to the canvas and threw up a little bit more. Cesar is an 18-year-old who trains here too. His first professional fight was a month from then. He’s a cocky little self-serving punk on his way up. Nobody here can stand him.

Fucker’s just like me.

I made my way onto my knees and wiped the remaining vomit from my lips, then turned to look at him.

“You in the mood for ice cream?”