The gap between our levels of skill was deeper than the Mariana Trench, but I guess that demonstration hadn’t been enough for it to sink in. Poor bastard.
He came with a left hook. I moved back half a step.
Whoosh.
Another jab. I stepped back. I could have killed him twice now. There, my third chance. Now a fourth. He was leaving too many openings to count. I could have laid him out on the floor ten times over in a single minute. Lucky for him my job wasn’t sending able-bodied Jacket jockeys to the infirmary, no matter how hotheaded they were. My job was sending Mimics to their own private part of Hell.
With each punch he threw and missed, the crowd cried out.
“Come on, you haven’t even scratched ’im!”
“Stop prancing around and take a hit already!”
“Punch him! Punch him! Punch him!”
