With a chorus of agonized screams, bodies hit the pavement like sacks of wet cement.
Thump. Thump. c***k.
It only took a few minutes. Over a dozen thugs were lying on the ground, twisting and groaning, resembling a pile of cooked shrimp freshly scooped from boiling water. Broken noses, dislocated shoulders, bruised ribs. Not a single one was standing.
Starr Hall stood frozen, his mouth agape, watching the scene unfold like a waking nightmare. The cigarette fell from his lips.
"Holy shit... am I seeing ghosts? Is this soft-rice eater the reincarnation of Bruce Lee?"
In Starr's worldview, live-in sons-in-law were meant to be punching bags. They were submissive, weak, and pathetic.
How could one be this strong? This world was insane.
Seeing Frank Yates walking toward him step by step,
