Fist Fights

“Oh my God, what happened to you?”

That’s how he was greeted on Monday morning when he came into the office. You could tell he was suppressing a triumphant smile. He seemed happy, even though his face was bruised badly.

“It’s nothing, forget about it. I walked into a door.”

“Yeah, sure you did. Repeatedly.”

All the women were concerned, all the guys showed moderate interest and steadfast declaration of having his back in case something was going down.

Who did this to him? He kept it secret, like a real tough guy always does, at least in the movies. He kept repeating it was a door in a husky Batman voice. Around lunchtime, he finally admitted that something might have happened and that more than one attacker might have been involved. He waited until there were enough people around to say:

“Yeah, it was nothing, just some street business. A few punk-ass kids. I handled them without hurting anyone. At least not permanently. But felt right. It was like the good old days. I really felt alive back then, and the feeling is back. You know, taking a punch to the face, but still being alive and able to fight back. This is what life is all about.”

Little did his audience know that he had prepared a mechanical beating contraption the day before and inflicted the injuries upon himself.

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