“Just because you can bash me up, doesn’t make you right!”
Ten-year-old Tristram Jones was in yet another fight at school.
“Shut up, Animal-man!” Snapped Rick Weston. He was a fat and freckled grade-six boy. He was also two years older and a foot taller than Tristram.
“Or what?” Tristram scoffed.
Rick then punched Tristram hard in the solar plexus.
Tristram fell to his knees, winded. He was grateful to be fighting on the grass of the school oval instead somewhere on the asphalt.
“Get up, coward!” Sneered a pretty little blonde girl from Tristram’s year. Her name was Stacey Frampton, and she was one of the twenty or so children watching.
“Everyone but you, Animal-man, thinks it was OK to piff a yonnie at that magpie.” Rick leered. “Everybody realises that I was doin’ what is best for
