Page 71 of Red River

"They’ve been on my case since day one. Making fun of me, messing around, writing ‘love letters’ and stupid shit on the board whenever the teacher wasn’t there. Eventually, half the class joined in, and I’d had enough. When Philip said that with lips like mine, I could make money giving blowjobs on OnlyFans,I lost it and hit him. But there were two of them, so… you see how that ended."

I didn’t comment. Instead, I said, "Basic rule of fighting—when it’s not a sport—always fight dirty. The goal is to take down your opponent as fast as possible. Neutralize the threat. Effectively."

He snorted. "Didn’t you hear? There were two of them!"

"Then be twice as alert. It’s all about speed and precision. Under the right conditions, you can handle two guys. But you have to get yourself into the right mindset. You have to want to hurt them. No hesitation. NONE. The most determined one wins."

Igor studied me in silence. There was something in his eyes—maybe the slightest spark of interest.

"If you hate me, then think of this whole training as a way to beat me. Learn all my weaknesses. And one day, take this family back for yourself."

Igor made a face, then absently touched his split lip. "By the time I get that good, you’ll have given him two more kids."

"That’s the plan. But hey, better late than never, right? Maybe one day, you’ll come out on top, and you’ll be the one setting the rules."

Igor sat there for a long moment, staring at his hands. Finally, he let out a breath, and I felt a shift in his energy. A cautious kind of openness.

"Alright then. Let’s get started. No point wasting my time!"

I knew that his anger was the only armor he had left. The truth was, I felt sorry for him, but at the same time, I couldn’t show it. He’d take it as an insult. What he needed was harsh, manly love.

"Well?" Igor said mockingly, crossing his arms over his chest. "I’m waiting for the secret knowledge, sensei. What are you gonna show me?"

"You show me." I walked over to the heavy bag and tapped it. "Hit the bag like you would one of the bullies… or me."

Igor looked at me warily but clenched his fists. I couldn’t help but notice that, this time, he actually did it right—he didn’t tuck his thumb inside. Maybe something I’d said during his attack on me had actually stuck?

He stepped up to the bag and raised his hands in a guard position—sloppy and full of holes, but I knew fixing his technique would be easier than changing his attitude. But even with that, I believed I could get through to him.

Before he even moved, I knew exactly what punch he’d throw. And sure enough—he pulled his right arm back and launched a wide, looping hook. His fist slammed into the bag, and he immediately winced in pain, though he pretended nothing happened.

"That hurt?"

"What? The hell are you talking about?" He tried to downplay it.

"Guess you’re tougher than me, ‘cause that would’ve wrecked my wrist." I winked at him, but he only frowned.

"Look." I lifted his hand, ignoring his passive resistance. "This part—" I tapped the back of his fist. "—and this part." I pointed at his forearm. "They need to be tight, solid like a plank. The wrist is key here. If it bends when you punch, you’ll end up hurting yourself more than your opponent."

Igor didn’t say anything, but his expression shifted slightly—from defiant to focused. He actually listened as I explained the basics of the Muay Thai guard and even let me position him correctly.

"Now, walk across the room and back in this stance. Small steps. Don’t cross your legs," I instructed.

Igor sighed in frustration but gave it a shot. On his way back, he blurted, "This is fucking stupid! You were supposed toteach me how to fight, not how to prance around like I’m in some damn ballet class."

"Trust me, that hood stance looks way dumber than this. If someone squared up to me like that on the street—" I played his old stance. "I’d know right away I was dealing with a poser, not someone who actually knows their shit."

I made him keep walking like that for a while, long enough for him to get the hang of it. But he was getting impatient.

"When are you actually gonna teach me how to punch?"

"One step at a time. Basics first," I said calmly.

"Oh, I see how it is. This is gonna be like one of those old movies, huh? You’re gonna make me paint your damn fence or polish your floors, acting like it’s some kind of secret training, when really, you just want free labor." He huffed sarcastically—but kept following my instructions.

I chuckled. "That was a good one!"

This kid had a sense of humor, whether he realized it or not, though it was buried under all the misery he was feeling.

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