a. Gordon is blood-thirsty.
Gordon is infuriated. He doesn't handle mocking too well. He swings again and connects. He doesn't wait for my direction this time, instead he charges in and continues the physical onslaught. At one point I think he punched me with both hands at the same time. "Have you ever heard of the Chef Ramsay double-punch?" And then he punched me with both hands. It's less overwhelming than you'd imagine. It's probably the momentum.
He continues roughing me up, making quite the mess in the process. It's starting to hurt, and the ringing in my ears is starting to get a bit overbearing. I raise my hands for him to stop. "All right! All right! One point for Gordon. I get it. Fists suck." He stops with the violence, his hands pretty bloody. I like to think it's his own blood, but it's quite clear it's mostly my face's. He falls to his butt and leans against the wall. He was leaning over me, you see; he was pretty "in the moment" for his fight. I say his fight because I didn't fight. I mean on moral grounds, yes. But there was no way I was gonna hold him back. I like to think I could've pulled off a Rocky Balboa comeback against Ivan Drago, but in reality I was headed towards the less-heroic Apollo Creed finish.
I start to drastically reconsider my decision to make love and not war. Well, I mean, if this is war, I don't want that either, but my whole peace-keeping schtick isn't helping me find Type AB positive donors any faster. I know most people will say I should've bit my tongue. Quit inciting Gordon. But I like to think Ghandi would have done the same thing. Only probably more effectively.
Gordon exhales and laughs, "You're such an idiot, Brent. You know that, right?" I glare at him. "Really, Gordon?" The gall.
I get up, gingerly.
I place two fingers on my bruised and sliced tomato of a cheek, and dramatically turn it to the left. "That's it, Gordon. It's on."
THE END.
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