The first punch glanced Tyler’s chin. He noticed too late that it was a feint, though, when the second punch doubled him over and expelled the last bit of choked air from his beer-weighted belly. It was a heck of a shot. Outside of having the wind knocked from him, which he always hated, Tyler noticed a fair amount of pain with the gutshot, which was something he wasn’t used to. A hit to the face, yes, or even the kidney...but the gut shouldn’t have been much more than discomfort, if that. Fortunately, he was used to it all. A veteran of bar fights in four states and countless cities, even being out of air was something Tyler knew how to deal with. He stood straight, eyes bulging with rage, and stared at his opponent—some punk college boy with a smart mouth—right in his shifty little eyes. The kid tried to stand tall, but he was about to pee his pants he was so scared. Tyler had him where he wanted him. “You…little…” Tyler took a lurching step forward with each word. On the third, he swung: “Punk!” The blow felt too sluggish. Tyler knew the second he launched it. The spry, smirking college kid ducked under it. Before Tyler could even register the dodge, however, another body shot, this one to his ribs, sent fresh ripples of pain through his torso. He didn’t fall—he made absolutely sure he did not fall—but it was a lot closer than he’d have liked. In other bars, where he was more well-known, his reputation would have already taken a beating whether he won the fight or not. The kid went in for another shot. Tyler shoved him off. Seeing the kid scoot back so far against the weight of it gave him a second wind. He covered the distance between them. Threw three more punches that did land. The kid fell. Then, he stood again. It was unreal. Between the pain in his guts and ribs and the general confusion (some would call it being punch drunk), the sight of the kid on his feet after the patented Tyler left-right-left was not something he wanted to see. He threw a haymaker that the kid ducked but didn’t parry, then another that the kid swung under again—and responded in turn with an uppercut. Click. The sound of Tyler’s upper and lower rows of teeth making unplanned contact sickened him. Still, he kept his feet. He had to. Falling down was not— Tyler woke up in the ambulance with a bad ache—both in his head and his ego. “Punk,” he said again, his throat sore from the effort of speaking that single word.