Chapter 89w: Rome Was Not Built In One Day (14 September 2003, at the Lionheart Theatre to babysit twerps during lunch)

This Cain punk wants war. That much is obvious.

Ever since we met the other day, those eyes of his have creeped me out.

OK, not creeped out, but still quite… unnerved.

He is a modern-day urban hunter. He chooses a prey, he'll stalk it, and then he'll pounce when he thinks the time is best. He's definitely not one to suffer a loss… not unless he is convinced of it.

I don't like the utter disrespect he is showing, but unlike that little asshole who doesn't have a signature to collect at the end of every day, keeping my head down is the difference between ending up in a place where life is hell, and the same place where life just goes by as it always does.

"That lunchbox does not suit you."

I move further out to the loading dock while shaking a cigarette out of my pack, sizing him up as he pops right out of the dead zone that is right behind me.

"I like it just fine."

The sneer on my lips as I light my fag must be pretty obvious, but he's holding back, even though I can tell he wants to do nothing more than pounce on me like the little fighter king he thinks he is.

"If you'll put it down on the ground, I'll stand on it for you. Accidents happen. What do you think?"

If I misunderstand, and he wants to make friends with me, this is his chance. If he does not have the balls to break such a little-kid lunchbox, then I'll just do it for him. He's just young, so maybe he's not quite ready to fight the system above him.

Cain's head tilts, and I almost feel as if his expression lights up… but not in a good way.

"Well… you can try. It is pretty sturdy."

He puts the box down on the ground, careful with every movement to the point where you'd swear he's afraid of getting it scuffed up. What the fuck?

"I'm going to stand on it, you know. Break it. You can just toss it down. And what about your lunch? You're not gonna bawl, are you?"

"Dad made it. I don't care about it."

Ah. What a cold response. Such daddy issues.

There's plenty of bastards out there, and that family must be full of them.

"Acting tough won't make it unbroken later."

The kid just shrugs.

"I'm not acting. So, do you've got the balls?"

I burst out in laughter, the smoke spurting out from my lips. Cheeky asshole.

"I've got several years on you, punk. Unlike yours, my equipment is fully operational."

The grin contorts my expression as I step forward and lift my foot to see whether or not he'll stop me.

But he merely stares.. with those dark eyes.

Fine. I look down to make sure my foot is indeed hovering above the lunchbox, and then I…

.. OOWWWW.

I collapse into a heap, hopelessly rolling over the floor while taking on the fetus position with all the strength in my body having left it in a hurry.

FUCKING… THAT…. #$ #

Right as I glanced down, the damn punk went straight for my fucking balls. FUCK.

"You little shit..! I'm going to murder you! MURDER YOU! You hear?!"

But I can only barely see him sneer as he crouches down besides me, his hand reaching out for the fag I dropped in this chaos.

"You see, William.. I was hoping we could be friends."

He looks into my eyes, crouched down besides me with the sort of peace of mind that in turn blows my own mind. No naive kid would just kneel down besides a guy he just picked a fight with, especially not our size difference.

"Friends? You've got a funny way of making friends."

As I see him take a puff of my fag and nearly cough his lungs out, I cannot help but laugh. I can't think of him as a serious enemy after seeing that, no… he's just a little kid.

"You not only made fun of me for my lunchbox, which I could care less about.. but you took it a step further."

His eyes are on mine again, and he stubs the cigarette out on my wrist. If my loins weren't lighting up my braincells like a christmas tree, I'd have dodged or grabbed his hand in return, but instead I feel just a few more neurons firing reminding me that my wrist is not meant to be exposed to the burning end of a cigarette.

Then.. it hits me.

This kid doesn't just understand that what he just did hurt… but he knows just how much it hurts. He knows just how much he can get away with because of it.

"My sister gave me that lunchbox. And if you ever think of touching it in the future, one punch won't be the end of it."

A shiver goes down my spine. True fear.

Why is a malevolent little psychopath like him here without needing a signature?!

"Now that you know my bottom line, maybe we can be friends. What do you think, William?"

Him using that name just makes me blurt out the words.

"Fuck you, punk."

He grins. And I realize… right as he kicks his foot full-force against my torso, expelling the air in my lungs out by force.

F# $ K..! The psychopath doesn't want to stop!

Two more kicks, one more painful than the next, before he picks up his lunch box, opening it. Those stupid bunnies on it seem as if they are taunting me as he empties out the contents of the lunchbox over my face: sandwiches in sealed bags topple over my face.

"Here, have this shitty lunch. Next time we fight I want to at least have to dodge your sorry 16-years-old ass."

I really, really want to put him at his place, but fuck, I'm no stupid animal that'll make the same mistake twice. Not until that crippling pain alleviates..!

He smirks. Casually. Provocatively.

"Loser."

And then he wanders back towards the theatre workshop door, closing up his lunchbox with a satisfied expression even as I can hear his empty stomach rumble out in protest. The little fucker..!