A Lonely Resurrection

me,” he said, around clenched teeth.
    “Oh, no,” I said. “I’m not going to break your ankle. I’m going to break your knee.” I took a half step back and pointed. “That one right there.”
    The idiot actually let his glance follow my outstretched finger. I tensed to launch an uppercut to his gut, but Washio, wise to such things, had seen it coming and jumped in between us.
    “You don’t start until I say start,” he growled, looking at me.
    I shrugged. Can’t blame a guy for trying.
    “They’ll be taking you out of here in a bag, fucker,” Adonis said. “That’s a promise.”
    Washio shoved us apart. The crowd tightened like a noose.
    “Are you ready?” Washio asked Adonis, who was bouncing on his toes like a hyperactive boxer.
    Adonis nodded, glaring at me.
    Washio turned to me. “Are you ready?”
    I nodded, my eyes on Adonis.
    “Hajime!”
Washio cried, and a collective shout went up around us.
    Adonis immediately feinted with a kick and took a sidestep back. Then again. We started to move in small, migrating circles.
    I saw what he was up to. For him this was effectively a hometown crowd. He would have friends in the audience. The movement of our circles would gradually take us closer to them, and give them access to me.
    But the presence of those friends would also engage his ego.
“Doko ni ikunda?”
I taunted him, moving to the center.
“Koko da.”
Where are you going? I’m right here.
    He took a step forward, but not enough to close the distance. My earlier taunts had focused him on his knees. He was afraid I would shoot in on him the way I had on his friend, and thought keeping his distance would prevent me.
    I dropped my arms a few centimeters and kept my head and torso slightly forward. He steadied himself on his feet and I could feel him thinking
Kick.
His kicks were good, too. I’d seen him practicing. If I were him, I’d try to wear me down from extended range, try to keep me away with those long legs.
    He planted his left foot forward and whipped in a right roundhouse kick. His foot smacked into my left thigh, then snapped back to the ground. I felt a bolt of pain and there was a shout of approval from the crowd. Adonis bounced on his toes again.
    He was quick. Didn’t give me a chance to grab the leg.
    I’d have to let him feel that the kicks were working for him, so he’d try to land them with a little more authority. The extra couple of milliseconds of contact would make the difference.
    He snapped the kick out again. It hit my thigh like a baseball bat and shot back to the floor. The crowd shouted again. There was a roaring in my ears.
    The impact hurt worse this time. A few more like that and I’d start to lose the full use of the leg. I knew he was thinking the same thing.
    I shifted back a half step and crouched, giving him more of my right side as though to protect my forward leg. I watched him in adrenalized slow motion.
    His nostrils were flaring in and out, his eyes drilling into me. He shuffled forward, his feet staying close to the floor.
    In my peripheral vision I was aware of his right foot taking the ground a little more firmly. His weight began to shift to his forward left. His hips cocked for the kick.
    I reined in my urge to act, forcing myself to wait the extra half-second I knew I needed.
    The kick started to come off the ground and I shot forward, shortening the distance by half. He saw his error and tried to correct, but I was already too close. I jammed the kick with my left hip and swept my left arm out and around his extended right knee.
    The crowd breathed, “Ahhh.”
    He improvised quickly, encircling my left tricep with his right hand and thrusting his free hand at my face, the fingers forward, going for my eyes. I tightened the grip on his knee and took a drop-step forward with my left leg, levering him down toward the floor. He hopped backward on his left leg to try to recover his balance and I popped a sharp right uppercut into his exposed balls.
    He grunted and tried to pull away. I took a long step forward with my right leg, ducking under his left arm and simultaneously releasing his knee. I swept behind him, clasped my hands around his waist, dropped my hips, and arched sharply backward. A suplex—more a wrestling throw than one from judo. Adonis arced over me like the last car on a rollercoaster, his arms and legs splayed at demented angles. His neck and shoulders took the impact and his legs rocketed over his head to the floor