There are so many people in me. There are so many women to meet. ‘Remember me,' to all the ones I have lost. The Glock is cocked; the sheep begin to drop.

Fighting one on one is generally matter of who’s better and who gets lucky. Fighting two on one is fighting at a distinct disadvantage, but is doable depending on your reaction time and whether you can keep your back to a wall or not. At about five on one that advantage starts to cancel itself out as there is far more likelihood that multiple assailants will end up hitting each other instead of you.

When the odds are more than ten to one things get sketchy.

Anyone who’s been in a real fight can tell you that things happen very quickly. Most fights only last a matter of seconds and when not constrained by a formalized rule set like those present in boxing or MMA someone gets hurt. Badly. When it’s the real deal there’s no such thing as fair. You’re either there to rip the other guy’s throat out or you’ll be seeing the inside of a hospital room. Or you won’t be seeing the morgue.

So Bob had always taken the words “end it quickly” as gospel.

One of the frenzied dwarves, the first on the scene, the skinny one Þvörusleikir who Bob had been told had assaulted Robin, rushed him right away, and for that was the first to fall as the steel tip of one of Bob’s poles penetrated his eye with a sickening pop followed by an audible squish and an equally disturbing crunch. Bob continued to thrust, jamming the point further in to scramble up the dwarf’s frontal lobe some.

“What the fuck? You’re supposed to be soft! A cook or something?” The second dwarf to arrive was much heftier and had visible blood staining his mouth and beard from his feasting. Bob let him come closer this time, closing the hand now free of the pole into a knuckle punch which he drove as hard as he could into the Dwarf’s throat.

Feeling the larynx splinter under his ****, he grinned fiercely. “Action nerd.”

You could do chin-ups with his erection.

The rest fell in ones or twos, leaping over the bodies of their fallen brothers and suffering various degrees of debilitating injury. By the time he faced the hook handed one, he had managed to break his second pole after literally shoving it where the sun doesn’t shine on the peg-legged one. Which is to say his left kidney.

“No more weapons for you. We settle this like men.”

Bob nodded slowly and lifted one of his ski clad feet bringing it down quickly on the release catch for his right ski as the largest of the dwarves closed, his hook still displayed grey matter from his fallen brother.

Bob’s boot rose and fell rapidly on the curved part of the ski, causing it to raise up like a skateboard which he caught with both hands before bringing it around in a quick arc so that the sharpened and waxed carbon fiber sliced into the unsuspecting assailant’s jugular.

“Action Nerd, motherfucker.”

I hope the girls are alright.

(Title: “Mid-day Anonymous” by Jets to Brazil)