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the fight wind cold on my face, on my bare chest, on my nipple ring, on my tattoo, the wind is cold on my bare legs, too, the wood of the porch like ice under my bare feet and i know without a doubt my wife will not stop though i am pleading, then commanding, then acquiescing like a dipshit meeting the drunken neighbor man halfway up my driveway avoiding his first punch easily, using his momentum as a bonus my fist pile-driving into his bulbous nose. he is knocked backward into the street. i know the wife is enjoying this, what she started, but i am too, surprised as ever by the soft spat! of a fist splitting nose and lip how skin slips over skull like rubber and bounces off the knuckles. there is just enough light from the street lamp and the concrete grips easily under my bare feet. i dance, picking my shots, able to study the man’s beard, his large beer gut as i jab his face, his body, then randomly jar him with sweeping rights. he is out on his feet, but i am enjoying this too much, not wanting him to fall. when he does, i grab his greasy hair, pull up his face and pop around his eye sockets so he will remember me in the morning. his brother and his son pull me off, tell me it is enough; his brother’s hand nearly lingers too long. a finger on my right hand is broken, has turned partially white from the trauma; the bottoms of my feet are raw and cut. but my foe is in much worse shape: blood soaks the front of his shirt, and his nose lists at an unnatural angle. when the cops come i am icing my hand and they ask for my side of the story: “he insulted my wife,” i say, “then came onto my property with malicious intent.” i do not tell them the wife had been spoiling, that i had been spoiling, that had the neighbor man not sparked off, the cops would have reported for a different reason. such are the whims of Trailerville. tomorrow, i figured, i would probably go over and help the neighbor man finish putting that 350 in his truck.
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