How do you like it?

Here they come, I thought. What in God's name am I going to do? It was then that I remembered the upstairs research center. I sneaked quietly over to the ladder. I could've taken the stairs, but I would've had to go through Mook's goons. I climbed up. I waited right next to the trap-door, in case one of them came up here. Sure enough, about a minute after I got up, here came some "upstanding" young gentleman. So I kicked him in the head. HARD. As my Converse made contact, there was a quick spurt of blood. It was pretty hardcore.

When he screamed, of course everybody's attention snapped over to the lump on the floor that was Jeremy King. He fell like fifteen feet from the ladder. Also hardcore. I like that word. Then there was Mook's signature cry of anguish and a rush of feet. They all began to climb. Here I saw two options. Either try to hold out as long as I can standing here head-punting, or I could take the theatrical route. Of course I took the latter.

Mook was up first. Evidently he didn't like the idea of facing me alone, because he asked, "Where the did you learn to fight like that?" I thought about telling him about how my Navy SEAL father had taught me how to kill with my bare hands after Junior High, but I chose instead to say, "I'm friggin' magical." "Really?" he said back. That was when his playmates got all together. All told, there were about thirty guys up here when the sign by the stairs said to limit six.

So I said, "Uh, structurally speaking, I don't this is, uh, really good time for your buddies to, ah, drop in." I pivoted around and leaped through the window as the research area splintered and caved in. As I hit the sidewalk, I rolled, partly out of necessity, partly because it looked cool. I ran to my car, slid over the hood, unlocked the door, got in, and drove home.

I got home at around 7:45. My mom had evidently heard about the fight, because as soon as I walked in the door, she rushed over,

"Oh, baby, are you okay? I'm so sorry! Are you hurt? Did you hit your head?"

"Mom, I'm fine. I'm not hurt. In fact," I said with a swell of pride, "I don't think a punch was landed on me." It was then that my dad sauntered in.

"Then thats a self inflicted switch blade stuck in the back of your leg?" Dad inquired with much zeal. "Huh?" I asked, then looked. Sure enough, a blade was there, just above the knee. Lots of blood.

I passed out.