>>5426018You keep him talking, looking for an opportunity to get aggressive. "You must make a lot of bank to afford a grill like that."
"Girl, you have no idea." He grins to show off his teeth again. "I'm richer than the King of Siam. Lot of money to be made these days if you know where to look. Why don't you ditch that Uncle Tom mothafucka and be my bitch for a while? All the nice things you ever wanted, plus if you're a good little girl I'll give you a taste of grade A premium dark meat, heh heh."
The insults sting more than you want them to, and in your anger you strike out at the first opportunity, launching forward with a thrusting side kick. But it was a trap. His huge hand catches your foot. Massive fingers clench, almost breaking the bones, and he's not even using his full strength -- you can see now how he tore through three SWATs with his bare hands. "Uh oh," he says. "Better be careful. Naughty bitches don't get any kibble."
Ignoring the pain in your foot, you use his hands as a springboard to get some height and, turning in midair, use the other foot to kick him in the back of the head. He lets go, stumbles a few feet. You land on the ground, wincing in pain as your partly crushed foot takes the weight.
"Damn, not bad," Wild Dog says, rubbing his head. A kick to the back of the skull should have at least dazed him. He sees your confusion and grins again. "Girl, you gonna learn eventually. I'm built different."
Pete has recovered by this point, and steps up beside you. "Be careful," he warns.
"Yeah, I got that by now," you say.
Spreading out to either side, on an unspoken signal you and Pete both attack at once. But it's no good. Even with all your training, even with Pete attacking from the opposite side, none of your strikes can get through, and in fact you find yourself defending half the time as huge punches swing your way. He's too damn fast and strong. Worse than that. He's too damn good. Not only does he have his massive bulk, but he's got serious skills, the kind you can only get from years of experience in real combat. Way beyond a rookie like you.
Wild Dog fakes high, then slams a punch into your gut. An explosion of pain and nausea. Vomit forces its way out of your stomach and through your mouth, splattering on the ground.
Pete steps in to draw attention away, but eats a haymaker to the face himself. Goddamn it, you're just slowing him down! Can't you pull your own weight even in a two-on-one?
You resist the temptation to punch the concrete in frustration, and force yourself back to your feet, wiping puke off your chin as you face your opponent again. Pete spits blood onto the floor. You're losing, you realize. Something has to change, and it has to change now.
