Saturday, September 15, 2012
Now I had him. Now he was helpless. I was in full control. I grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him upright. But his hands wouldn't release their grip on his poor punched belly. So I shook him roughly by the collar and slapped him back against the side of the tree to loosen his clutch. Eventually he reached for my arms, and I whipped my left fist back and socked him a haymaker uppercut in the stomach, then I swung my right back and gave him the same thing again.
I saw his eyes cross briefly and he roared out an anguished belly-grunt -- uuh! The girls had a full view of it (I made sure to stand just right), and they both blurted out "oh, right in the belly!" then they looked at each other and laughed.
The pot-bellied oaf was leaning back on the tree, fully winded, with his shirt bunched up to his chest. I rared a fist back, aimed at his face, and his hands flew up to try to block it, pure reflex, while his eyes got big.
Instead I dropped the punch overhand into the upper curve of his stomach, right in the gut! His eyes got even bigger then. I let them see me hold it in him, pure mass of muscle in my punch and pure vulnerability in his soft belly.
His worthless, girly belly paid the price while I put on a show for the girls. They were chanting, "belly-punch! belly-puch!" and calling out, "beat his belly! What's wrong, can't take it in the belly?"
I stepped aside to let him stagger. I love it when they stagger. When they're torqued up by the suffering in their belly, and they can't keep their wobbly knees straight. When I got tired of hearing their giggles at that, I whipped him back upright by the collar, jerked him around toward me, ducked down and packed a sledgehammer punch right into his belly.