Down the brick steps, catty-corner at the intersection, along some petunias, behind the troop of girls, and across one last street was my course. Approaching point 4, I smiled at the woman with her brood, who smiled to me but turned away when I came near. My cigarette, delicious thing, was in my right hand when I quietly sneezed--do you smell blood already? No, I did not burn a little girl with a cigarette, but I did convulse and backhand someone's ass. I still don't know whose.
In that moment I met the eyes of a 40-tired-something. My apology came a second too late as I was slapped with enough force to stagger me, with my cigarette in hand, burning the little brunette at my waist.
To that I had no words. I let my cigarette fall as I knelt to the cement, trying to show the crying scout my own tears. Her friend jumped me.
My elbow itched to crack outward, but I held down the fort, exhibiting great integrity and resistance to the scratching, shrieking girls. Babies, really. I let them assault me for a few seconds because I thought I could teach them something about having the capacity to stick up for themselves, to walk over someone, to be the beater, to help them earn their New World Order badges. My next impulse was to lift my upper body out of their reach, standing and holding them back to do so, but the woman swung her purse onto my back. I felt a box of, I think, Samoas, by the rattling of coconut shavings against the plastic wrapping.
I rose despite this. The brunette's feet tangled with my own as I received a final punch to the nose from the woman, who had become strong by hauling the table, cookies, Hello Kitty© stereo, and little girls around the city.
Falling and in an instant laughing, I let myself be strewn across the petunias, satisfied that I had done a good job.
Thanks for listening,
Mauricio
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