I stood, unbuttoned my faded flannel shirt, folded it into a neat, twelve-inch square along its seams, and laid it across the metal seat. Beneath it, I wore only a plain gray cotton undershirt, revealing the thick cords of tendon along my forearms and the faded, jagged lines of three bullet entry scars running along the edge of my right latissimus dorsi.
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I walked onto the blue-and-red mat wearing only my cotton socks.
Blake Haron grinned like a hyena approaching a wounded lamb. He dropped his chin, raised his guard into a tight Dutch kickboxing shell, and bounced lightly on the balls of his bare feet, his muscular shoulders rolling with loose, professional kinetic energy:
“Don't worry, plumber!” Blake mocked, flashing his mouthpiece: “I’ll try not to break your jaw in front of your neighbors!”
Blake launched his fastest, most devastating attack: a feint jab with the left, followed by a blinding, lightning-fast right overhand cross aimed squarely at my temple at eighty miles per hour!
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