“What the fuck?” the scrawny kid finally screamed, his voice cracking. Panic overrode self-preservation. He lunged forward throwing a wildly telegraphed right hook that aimed somewhere near Agrippa’s ear. It was an amateur’s punch, heavy and slow, loaded with emotion instead of technique. Agrippa slipped it with a fractional movement of his head. The punch sailed past his ear, carrying the kid’s momentum entirely off center. As the kid stumbled forward into the empty space, Agrippa stepped in. He dug a vicious left hook directly into the kid’s liver.
It wasn’t a head shot. It was worse. A liver shot doesn’t knock you out, it paralyzes you. It sends a massive shockwave through the nervous system, dropping blood pressure instantly. The scrawny kid gasped, a horrible sucked-in sound. His eyes bulged, his skin turned an immediate shade of ash white, and his legs completely gave way. He collapsed to the ground, curling into a tight fetal position, clutching his right side, unable to draw breath, a silent scream etched onto his face. “Two down, 4 seconds.”
Agrippa stepped back, opening up his stance, keeping the remaining three in his field of vision. His breathing was even, slow, and measured through his nose. He wasn’t even sweating. The transition was absolute. He was no longer the tired father at the park. He was an apex predator standing in a yard full of sheep. The third guy, a heavy-set kid wearing a backward baseball cap, realized too late that they were out of their depth. But adrenaline is a stupid chemical. Instead of running, he tried to tackle Agrippa, dropping his head and charging forward like a high school linebacker.
Agrippa welcomed the momentum. He didn’t try to stop the heavy kid. He stepped off the center line, grabbed the back of the kid’s neck with his right hand, a brutal tie plum clinch, and drove his left knee straight up. Bone met bone with a sickening crack. The knee caught the charging kid flush on the bridge of his nose. The boy’s forward momentum shattered his own face against Agrippa’s kneecap. Blood sprayed in a sudden bright arc across the concrete. The kid let out a garbled wail, falling backward onto the grass, both hands clutching his ruined face, rolling in agony. Three down.
Agrippa didn’t pursue. He reestablished his base, his hands raised in a loose, relaxed guard. He looked at the final two. They were standing near the sandbox, completely paralyzed by the sudden, overwhelming violence. The swagger was gone. The cruelty was gone. All that was left was raw, unfiltered terror. They looked at Trent, snoring wetly on the concrete. They looked at the neck tattoo kid, still unable to breathe. They looked at the heavy kid, bleeding profusely into the grass. Then, they looked at Agrippa. Agrippa’s face was utterly blank. His eyes were dead black stones. He took one single slow step toward them.