“Don’t shoot ... we surrender!” one of the last three put up his hands as Tara ripped off his hood.“What’s your name, freak?” I deliberate...y insulted the asshole, mostly because I was fucking pissed.Wilbur, Jr. would likely survive, but not without severe pain and discomfort for the rest of his life. He was unlikely to ever find a position, sitting, standing, or lying down, other than prone, that would be without pure agony. He might well need painkillers, but those didn’t exactly have a steady. I wanted to beat him until he was just a puddle of mush on the floor beneath me and then take a squeegee and clean up his remains. I went to class not to improve my technique or advance the art, but to let out some of that rage by sparring. After a few weeks no one in my class wanted to fight with me. Even among the ranks of guys who were much younger than I was and were ranked higher, I had problems finding partners. In a lot of cases I ended up sparring with some of the competitive fighters. More

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