He faces the crowd of tough guys alone.

No back up.

None needed.

His hands are empty but his fists are full.

Of power.

Of punch.

He’s packing alright.

He takes them all down in a matter of hours.

Broken and bloody noses lie on the street.

Bits of ears and strands and clumps of hair decorate the sidewalks.

Is that an eye ball in the gutter?

He faces an empty street ready for more.

He spits.

He rubs it into the tar and takes a running leap at a lamp post.

With a thwack and a bong, the post is knocked to the ground.

He moves on to the others, and soon they lie in defeat.

Thwack. Bong. Crash.

He’s not even sweating.

He spits again.

He rubs it into the asphalt and runs at the lights.

With a crash and a tinkle, the red-orange-green shards shower the street.

He moves on to more lights that dare flash at him or shine at him.

Crash. Tinkle. Plink.

He spits again.

He rubs it in some more.

Now he’s ready for a real fight.

He faces the street of smooth tar and pretty painted lines alone.

His back is up.

His breathing is heavy.

His legs bend and he jumps straight up in the air.

The road shudders under him as he pulls his fist out of the street.

He hits the road again.

Jump. Punch. Roar.

He’s a road worrier.

He’s a street fighter.

Nobody messes with him.

He messes with you.

Nothing personal.