“I don’t know. I think I’ve maybe seen your orange Jack-o-Lantern glow somewhere,” I said as we moved closer to each other.

I admit I’m thoroughly embarrassed about using the world’s lamest language, but I had to keep it authentic with the parking lot tough guy talk. Not seem too deliberate. No time for Shakespeare.

Neither of us needed to keep throwing out appetizers before the full meal. We were ready.

Anthony and I charged each other like bull elks in a nature documentary. Our bulky arms locked like the great antlers of those masculine beasts.

I could tell something was very wrong as soon as my palm slid down Anthony’s well-greased bicep. I immediately knew I had finally bit off more than I could chew. Anthony Verano from Piscataway, New Jersey was not one of those fake “tough guy” bodybuilders pumped full of water. He was the real fucking deal.

“I told you not to fuck with me,” Anthony screamed into my ear just as he officially took hold of the upper hand.

Anthony drove me into the ground like the world’s best linebacker and wasted no time in throwing blows straight at my unprotected face. He was a pro. Within about four or five shots from his fists, I felt like I was going to black out.

“Pussy,” was the last word I heard before one last pound from Anthony’s hand put my lights out.