If I See Doug, I'm Going To Kick His Ass
That's it. Doug thinks he can talk shit behind my back and get away with it? Oh, no, my friend, that's not gonna fly with me. That motherfucker's a dead man. A dead man! Running his mouth like a little bitch. The fuck does he think he is, anyway? Doug needs to get his smug face smashed in right now, and I don't give a shit where—outside his house or in a parking lot or on his lunch break in front of his whole fucking office. Give me two minutes, man. I'll teach him to mess with Rick Stovall.
The first thing I'm gonna do when I see his ass is crack him one in the nose so he knows I'm serious. Then I'm gonna throw him to the ground and pound the living shit out of him until he's begging me to stop. And if he tires to crawl away, I'll toy with him a little, give him some hope that I'm done beating his ass, and then I'll grab him by the hair and knock him around some more just to make sure the little bitch gets the message loud and clear.
That's a promise. If I so much as lay an eye on that fucking prick, he's done. I will end him.
I've put up with Doug's crap for far too long to let this one slide, and it won't be resolved until Doug's rolling around in his own blood and busted teeth, gasping for air. I am literally going to hold that asshole down and beat him until his will to fight back is completely broken.
All right, that's enough talk. Doug better watch out, because I'm coming, and it's not going to be pretty.
Apparently Doug Is A Better Fighter Than I Thought
Well, it appears as though I was somewhat presumptuous about Doug's fighting abilities. Doug, as it turns out, is actually quite an adept fighter—so good, in fact, that while he was snapping my head back with various lefts and rights, and blood began to fill my mouth and gush from my nose, I thought to myself, "Doug knows exactly what he's doing here in terms of fighting, whereas I clearly haven't thought this thing through."
I guess my first mistake was throwing a punch at a man who, in the interests of full disclosure, is much stronger than I initially gave him credit for. I wouldn't be surprised if Doug lifts weights four or five times a week and is enrolled in some sort of mixed martial arts class. This would certainly explain why he seemed to expend very little energy throwing me to the ground, and why he effortlessly put me in a hold that caused my shoulder to make a popping sound that, until that moment, I didn't know a human body could make.
By then, there was no turning back. That's not to say I didn't try. I hadn't crawled more than a few panicked feet away when Doug grabbed me by the hair and pulled me back into a circle of people, all of whom were looking at me as if to say, "Why would you call Doug a fucking prick if you weren't prepared to defend yourself?" I found that to be an excellent question, one that I will explore in depth at a later date when my cranial swelling has subsided.
Anyway, Doug began pounding fist after fist into my helpless, highly-unprepared-to-fight-him body. Gotta give credit to Doug here for putting so much force into my ribs that the blows not only caused me to gasp for air and writhe in pain, but broke my will to fight completely. Never in my life has my spirit been so low as when Doug started kicking me in the face with his steel-toed boots.
But you have to remember, I was still mad at Doug. Furious, even. This is Doug we're talking about, after all—the same Doug whose crap I've had to put up with for far too long. That is why my pride kicked in and I asked, through loose teeth, coughed-up blood, and what I will now admit were tears, "Hey, Doug, is that all you got?" Well, it turns out that was not all that Doug had. In fact, he had much, much more. You see, whereas I was ready to quit 10 seconds into the fight, Doug somehow found another gear, and boy was it impressive.
Here's an interesting tidbit about Doug: When he gets really mad, he does this little thing where he puts his knees on your chest so you can't move and then proceeds to elbow—not punch, elbow—your head over and over and over again. Not just the sides of your face, mind you, but the nose, the mouth, and the temples in a brisk pattern that leaves no portion un-hit for more than three seconds. I had blood dripping from my ears, which was a first for me.
So, in sum, Doug, you are very good at fighting. So good in fact that I was not even close to achieving my initial goal of teaching you a lesson when it comes to messing with Rick Stovall. If anything, I learned never to mess with Doug, which is a lesson I will not soon forget.