An Eye for an Eye

Guy named Brad

Brad looked up from his half eaten hotdog with hate in his eyes. This would be the last time he would suffer such an insult from l the likes of this bastard.

"You son of a bitch!" He yelled with an accusing finger pointing at the man with the whistle. As soon as their eyes met the soft grass beneath their feet became their battlefield. Brad charged.

The much older man met the charge with the confidence of a man half his age, leading with a powerful right cross that missed the mark, but only by inches. The unexpected defensive maneuver did not stop Brad's assault, as his momentum sent the both of them tumbling to the ground. The old man's grunt was hardly audible over the cracking of his ribs, but he had no time to consider the extent of his injuries with this brute laying into him.

Brad rose up and began forcing his fists into his opponents face, one after another. The crowd erupted in shouting as the violence ensued, with children and women crying and fleeing in shocked terror. Their objections did not sway the single-minded determination that consumed Brad with an urge to pummel this old man until both his hands were broken and riddled with shards of broken teeth.

Just as his rage was about to come to satisfying fruition Brad's arm was halted mid-bludgeon, and two former spectators pulled him off his victim. Brad was exercising the breadth of his cursing vocabulary when he was suddenly in excruciating pain. The old man had crawled forward in the commotion and was biting through Brad's sock into the meat of his achilles tendon.

"Fucking cunt!" Brad spat as he returned his attention back to his adversary, who had turned the page from victim to aggressor. He grabbed two handfulls of whispy, thinning gray hair and pulled hard, freeing up long bloody ribbons of severed scalp. The man continued gnawing away at Brad's leg with a zombie-like focus. It was going to take more to dissuade him.

With the recent elevation in brutality the crowd was thinning, leaving only a few bloodthirsty men watching intently. The kind of men that don't intervene on fights and know how to keep their mouths shut. Brad acted quickly to end the painful fire at his ankle, and plunged a thumb into his opponent's eye, at first only swishing it around the socket until isolating it, then piercing it with a jagged fingernail. The sensation startled him, and he suddenly became aware that he was no longer being bitten.

The fight was clearly won, and the cheering savages that watched it unfold now scattered like cockroaches. They could sense that there would be questions to answer soon, and they wanted nothing to do with it. The old man was screaming in agony on the ground, blood streaming through his fingers and down his face like mock tears. Brad rose to his feet and hobbled over toward his bested foe, finally standing over him in victory.

"How dare you come into MY town and ruin MY kid's day... That was a fucking touchdown, you cocksucker! Even someone with ONE FUCKING EYE could see that!" Brad was so angry as he spoke that he rained spittle through clenched teeth. He turned away and limped off the field to his pickup truck.

Brad takes little league football very seriously.