[justice punch]

I stare into space.

The scene plays and replays. With a still fury, I replay it, wishing I had understood more quickly to what you referred. Because, of the two things that happened that night, I expected the first to be fine, and the second, blackmail material.

The scene plays:
You rush to me, call me out, and are met with a bowed head (here the intentions are crossed). I mumble something, thinking the second event was yet to be mentioned, and slip out.

The scene replays:
You rush to me, call me out, and are met with a furious glare (here the intentions are clear). I respond harshly, "Are you reprimanding me? Who do you think you are? My father?" "Well if I were, I probably wouldn't speak Spanish correctly." FWAP! Before you realize how ignorant your comment is, your punishment begins (for you have had plenty of time to think about all of your former, also ignorant, comments). You hit the ground, and lay flat, mostly shocked by what just happened. A third stands nearby, watching, jaw dropped in sheer surprise. I quickly lower my body onto yours (no, it is not what you would like), and the barrage continues, one punch after another, each one bringing me a fraction closer to satisfaction. But since the approach occurs in fractions, I never quite get there, and thus the blows continue.

I see the accumulating blood from the miniscule veins in your face I am slowly rupturing. Now a few drops squeeze their way out of your tightly shut eyes. Your nose has begun to produce a steady river. Your lips are split and the stains on my knuckles are evidence of why (as if there were any doubt). The third sees a puddle is growing on the floor beneath your beaten face, and steps towards us to end your punishment. I pause, straighten up, and look into his face. I hold up a bloody left hand, palm towards him, letting him know I have almost finished.

I ball up my right hand into a fist once more, and ponder for a second where you deserve it most. Your nose looks tired, your eyes swollen shut; aiming for your chest might be ineffective, and for your neck, too effective.  The decision becomes clear, and all too reasonable: your mouth. Though I wish there were a way to punish that far too foolish mind of yours, I gladly settle for that orifice that allows the escape of far too many foolish statements. As I lower my knuckles into your breath, I hear a crack and feel a crunch beneath my hand. I see you budge your tongue around weakly, and watch as you discover a broken tooth.

Before you manage to bring a hand to your face, my fingers dive past your bleeding lips and take hold of their winnings. I raise my knees from the floor, admiring between my fingers the goods of my conquest as I slowly stand. I mumble something - a warning, most likely - and slip out.