Author Note

Thanks go out to unicornforcewinds for taking the time to help me edit this particular chapter about half a year ago. I am almost ashamed how long it's taken me to publish to this point. Oh well. I got here eventually. Thank you!

As far as all the rest of you go: enjoy the chapter! ~SilkHandkerchief

Chapter 65t: Wringing The Washrag

"Are you thinking of giving up already?"

I can feel the little troublemaker under my foot as he tries to do his fifth push-up of the hundred he boasted he could easily do.

Apparently he has some energy left in him. Whatever.

My eyes glance towards Marc who's sipping a beer in the canteen. He grins and shrugs in a sign of 'friendly' victory, and I roll my eyes at him. He knows exactly what he tossed into my care and what would come out of it. And that doesn't even mention the way in which he made it happen.

Fuck. I should have known: never play poker with a psychologist.

That's about as futile as playing with a professional magician, except the latter is guaranteed to be cheating somehow and you'll find proof if you just apply the thumbscrews a little bit. Shrinks on the other hand get into your mind and fuck with it at their leisure.

The kid underneath my foot growls as he finally pushes up again for the sixth time, forcing some of the anger that Marc told me motivates him out in the process. Fuck. This kid isn't a favor, he is a fucking project. My middlefinger lifts up towards Marc in a universally understood sign regarding my thoughts of the trap he had set for me.

What asshole goes to a friendly poker night just to con a favor out of a mate? Marc, obviously. The fucking guy cares too much about these damned problem kids; he just needs to face the fact that they are a worse influence on him than he is a good one on them. He should just walk away!

He won't... but fuck, I'm going to tell him a few more times when we get rid of this new generation of societal waste.

As I feel the struggle continuing underneath my foot, I find myself overly tired of this bullshit. My full weight comes to lean on the kid, and his body pathetically crushes down into the training mats.

"What? Are you angry?"

His eyes can barely meet mine from where he is pinned on the floor courtesy of the mirror on the wall, but he doesn't respond.

I'll just continue then.

"Good. You are a waste of my time, and a waste of Marc's time. You are the single most pathetic piece of shit to stumble into my life this month, and I'll assure you now I wasn't fond of it to begin with. If I were, I'd be in fucking Ibiza, you understand?"

I finally take my foot off his back, and he stays put even after I give him a secondary push with my toes. He's just glaring at me in silence with those dark, hostile eyes.

They remind me of those weaponrunners I met in Palestine, thinking they did God's work by bringing death into Gaza, but they were only acting on the hatred in their own blackened hearts. God's love? My ass.

Unfortunately, I can't apply the same solution here.

The wretched kid must be exhausted. Good. I don't need wimps with issues that waste my time. Why the fuck did Marc rope me into this?

I flip him off a second time, and apparently he finds it amusing: his beer is now dribbling down his chin.

As I consider the merits of a battle-well-fought speech to put an end to this charade of a favor, the kid once more begins to push his body upwards and continue his series of pushups. Without my bit of sabotage pushing him down, he can finally enter a rhythm, but his eyes glare fiercely at mine.

"I. Will. Do. Everything. But. I. Will. Get. You. Back. For. Every. Sodding. Inch. Of. Your. Fucking. Hypocritical. Israeli. Asshole. MARK. MY. WORRRRDS."

I'm not sure if he even reached fifty push-ups, nevermind one hundred. I don't give a damn, either. As he moves to stand up, I stare at his eyes that are still trying to burn holes into mine.

"What? Are you angry? Upset? Pissed off? Do you hate your own impulsive juvenile dick because it is as impotent as the rotten meat you've got for brains?"

He lashes out, his fist coming up at me in a not too shabby cross. As far as recreational boxing goes, I suppose it's acceptable.

But if he wants to try that bullshit against me and succeed, he's going to need to kill me first.

My hand slips up into his personal space, circling around his arm and locking the joint to misdirect it while nudging his center of gravity firmly onto his right foot.

As I find some unavoidable support under his armpit - the coddling nature of these Brits towards their kids is way fucked up - my other hand moves to his neck and lifts him up. I could have pulled him up with a single hand just fine, but at least the momma's boy is going to end up with a few less bruises this way.

One, two, three steps. Now he's stuck with his back against the wall. My thumb could choke him. Add the other fingers, and I could snap his neck. Never breaking eye contact, I make sure he can feel my fingers encroaching on his life. He struggles, but it isn't systematic; more like a pointless flailing caused by panic.

As angry as he might be, I think he finally recognises it. Fear. Self-preservation. The human nature to lick a guy's boots no matter how much shit they are covered in, because together with all of nature's glory comes the delicious fragrance of oxygen and a few more seconds of life.

I lean in. Closer. My voice lowered as I emphasize my position.

"If you want revenge on me, you can try.

But know this: I am going to beat it out of you.

That glare of yours is for those who threaten the people you want to protect; not for those who have disappointed or failed you.

Every time you come here, I will teach you the wonderful meaning of the life that God has bestowed on us.

As you follow my training, I promise to turn you into the kind of little hippie pacifist that values every single life he comes across.

And let there be no doubt: if you ever abuse others again after today, I will teach you that God may decide who goes to Heaven or to Hell... but not whether you stay in this world to begin with."

The fear is very obvious in his eyes. I can feel it, and find the thrill of holding his life in my hand just as disgusting as it is intoxicating.

"Now say 'Yes, Tovi', and maybe I'll let you use your feet again."