Part of the shorts series. Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be self contained even if they have characters from other stories. Good for when you are looking for a quick fight that won't hurt your eyes reading for a long time.
The red hot sun blistered the jobsite like a furnace, worse then the dick head Sun from Super Mario Brothers 3. Metal gleamed like white-hot wire. Not even their extremely thick insulation could protect them right now. The dust clung to sweat-soaked skin, and tempers were already at a low boil. Most of the crew had already discarded most of their upper body clothing, deciding to instead just wear the mandatory safety vest.
Jack strutted along the scaffolding, bare chest gleaming under the open safety vest, cocky as hell. Twenty-four and chiseled like a Greek statue, full of mouth and muscle. With the power of youth, came the absence of common sense. This was especially true with Jack.
“Yo, Celtic! That beam’s off by half an inch. You sure your ancient arms didn’t measure it in cubits?” he yelled, laughing at his own joke.
Celticfire, matching the other men here with a a vest open over a thick scarred hairy chest, kept working. No words, no actions, not even the rolling of his eyes. He just didn't care. Jack tried saying something else, but he tuned out immediately when he heard that nickname again. The nickname was a joke nobody liked, especially not him. But it stuck. Kind of like him. All grit and gravel. He hated it, but in the end, it was what ever.
Jack hopped down from the scaffolding, boots thudding in the dirt. He was clearly upset his bait wasn't being taken.
“You hear me, old man?”
“I hear you,” Celticfire said without looking. “I just don’t give a damn what you have to say".
Jack stepped up, close. “Maybe your ears are going, too. Maybe it’s time someone showed you how to retire.”
Celticfire looked up, and bore a calm expression that seemed carved from stone. His voice was just as cold....
“That right kid?”
Jack smirked and swung a fast, a quick hook. A cheap shot it would be called by anyone who say it. Regardless, it connected, popping Celticfire in the jaw, turning his head.
Then silence.
Then Jack knew.... He fucked up.
Celticfire’s fist sank into Jack’s stomach , fast and hard. Despite the impressive amount of show muscle there, Jack grunted hard in pain. It would seem the muscle was indeed just for show, and had never once been battle tested. Jack tried to rally himself but then caught a second, lower, deeper, nastier uppercut to the stomach knocking the wind right out of him. Jack staggered, arms flailing. Was Jack about to say something else? The world would never know, as a right cross from the older man put an end to the thought.
“Still wanna talk?” Celticfire growled.
Jack came back, swinging wild. One grazed Celticfire’s shoulder. The next was dodged, no matter what Jack threw, he would come up short. Youth and inexperience would not work here today. As Jack tried for another punch, he found his head snapped back, taking a hard blow to his chin. Blood and vomit invaded his throat as his eyes became blacking by stars. He would try to hold it back, before his stomach was blasted by cold steel.
No not steel, fists forged by decades of hard labor. Celticfire wasted no times with words or emotions that his fists could express. A hook to the chin, a jab to the chest. Several body blows that left Jack bruised and dazed. Then, Celticfire buried a fist into Jack’s face again. Jack stumbled back, bleeding, hurting, full of anger and shame.
A hammer of a punch cracked into Jack’s side, then another into his chest, pushing him back like a sack of meat. Again his core was subjected to fists far stronger, but just as fast and rapid firing as any machine gun. Jack's vest, now stained with both sweat and blood, hung loose now, and his abs were red from impact, twitching with every breath.
Still, Jack threw another punch. Or tried to. It missed, bad.
Once again cold unforgiving hands smashed into the face of the younger man, pushing him back, almost off the support! Celticfire grabbed him by the collar of his vest. He wanted him hurt, not dead after all. Celtic dragged Jack forward, and drove his forehead into Jack’s nose. Safe from falling, not from the lesson. Blood spurted everywhere. Down Jack's chest, splattered on Celtic's fur, on wood still needing to be worked. Jack reeled, disoriented, and took a right cross to the jaw that spun him around.
He hit the ground, seeing several of everything.
“You done?” Celticfire said.
Jack spat blood. “Screw you.”
He lunged, but his punch was slow. Celticfire dodged and delivered three body shots in brutal rhythm, a dangerous song for all idiot youth to remember.
Crack, a left to the ribs, leaving them in a few more pieces then they originally were.
Thud, a right to the stomach, what sad excuse of muscle that was there, already tenderized and destroyed.
Thunk, a left to the liver. He would piss blood for a week.
Jack’s knees buckled, his eyes rolled, the boy was learning a painful lesson. To bring the point home, Celticfire slammed a fist into his solar plexus. Jack gasped, staggered, fell to his knees. Jack was done, Celtic was not.
Celticfire stepped in, calm as ever, and landed one final punch to the chin.
Jack dropped. Out cold.
The dust settled. The sounds of construction buzzed in the background like nothing happened. Celticfire exhaled through his nose, rubbed his knuckles, and went back to his tools.
“Lesson’s over.”
Jack just laid there, he didn't say anything for once.
