As soon as he saw the kid showing off the black belt around his waist to his friends outside the strip mall dojo, Andy knew what he had to do.

His punch was perfect—easily the best he had ever thrown—and it slammed into the orbit of the eight-year-old’s left eye with the force of a runaway train.  It sent the kid flying ass over teakettle, and he landed on the sidewalk in a heap, like Chaplin taking a pratfall in an old silent film.

It was fucking beautiful.

The kid was utterly devastated, lying senseless on the pavement, whimpering and gasping in short, jagged little sobs while his friends shrieked hysterically.

Relentless, Andy stepped up, drew back one foot, and drove a soccer kick deep into the kid’s guts.  The breath exploded from his lungs, and the air thickened with the reek of voided bowels.

“Welcome to the real world,” Andy said with a smirk.  “Here there are no rules, every fight is rigged, and no one cares when you get hurt.”

The kid replied by curling into a ball and vomiting messily.

“You should trade that belt for a helmet,” Andy suggested before turning and walking away.


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