Fisticuffs

Fisticuffs! Cold cocked from the right. The Big Noise From Winnetka rings between my ears in full color. Swing from deep inside the shoulder, land it two feet passed an ugly mustached mug. That dude didn’t feel a thing. Taste of blood and mocos. Smelling is a sense I could do without. In too close. Crack back. The effort is futile. Come on someone smack me. Swing around. Here comes a fresh one swiping down on me. Fall flat. The asphalt is so uncomfortably cold.

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