Featured image URL
The high-gain encrypted alarm shrieking from my folded flannel shirt cut through the humid air of the Iron Ridge Combat Academy with the concussive, hydrostatic shock of an eighty-pound iron depth charge rupturing an armored bulkhead.
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-SCREEECH.
The forty parents perched on the folding chairs went completely, terrifyingly rigid.
Blake Haron froze in mid-bounce, his sixteen-ounce leather gloves dropping three inches from his chin, his sweat-sheened chest heaving as his eyes darted from my impassive face to the small black transponder flashing on the chair.
Advertisement
“What the hell is that?!” Blake snapped, trying to reassemble his fractured bravado as he bared his teeth behind his rubber mouthpiece:
“Who’s playing pranks on a radio?! I challenged you to a fight, plumber! Put your hands up or get off my canvas before I take your teeth out!”
I did not raise my hands into a boxer’s guard.
