before he could remember any moves, Milo had punched him in the
face.
“Ow!” cried Gareth. Strangely enough, in all the years that he had
made violence his business, he had never been in a real fight. He
never realized real pain would be such a drag. His face stung, his
skull throbbed, and his dignity was gone. The last bits of his self-
respect gushed out of a cut on his cheek.
“Why you—!” Gareth cried, lunging for Milo. Before he could get
his arms around Milo’s torso, however, the far more skilled fighter
threw a hook to the side of his head and knocked him to the ground.
Prisoners in neighboring cells clamored to get a glimpse of the
battle but even those who couldn’t see cheered on the fighters. “Nog
his blog off! Killem!” screamed someone who couldn’t see the fight,
didn’t know the fighters and had no vested interest in either one of
them winning. It was just that the idea of two people trying to murder
each other made him feel as if life was worth living after all. What’s
the point of living if you got nothing to die for? Bless those guys. They
probably found something real special to live for. Killem.
Gareth had pulled himself off of the floor and punched Milo in
the stomach, after which Milo said, “Dumbass! Didn’t you hear what
I told you? We gotta hit where there’ll be damage. Hit me in the face!”
“I’ll hit you in your motherfucking face!” cried Gareth and swung
madly at Milo’s head, missing horribly and bashing his hand on the
steel bedframe.
“Aaaaaghhh!” cried Gareth, after which Milo, in the interest of
maintaining realism, punched him in the nose. Blood sprayed out
laterally. Milo smeared a little on his own face, hoping it might look
as if it were his own. He tried to give Gareth an easy target, holding
his head a steady two feet away from his adversary. Responding to
the opportunity, a winded and frustrated Gareth pulled his good
hand back as far he could and struck Milo square on the forehead.
Previously unbeknownst to Gareth, punching someone square
on their forehead was about as effective as slugging them square on
their refrigerator. The damage to Milo’s forehead was negligible, but
now both Gareth’s hands were mangled.
“Aah, aah, ooo, ooo!” Gareth moaned in utter torment.
“Shit, man. You stink,” complained a still-unscathed Milo.
Hearing the guards coming, he realized that he had to act fast.
Sending Gareth to the floor with a right cross, he grabbed the steel
bedframe with two hands, and banged his face against it repeatedly.
H O L Y S H I T !
180
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