Rebooting Fate by Henry Brown

Author:Henry Brown
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: red pill, based, anti-woke, football, leadership, group dynamics, manhood, masculinity, socio-sexual hierarchy, MMA, martial arts, boxing, kickboxing, coming of age, hypergamy, game, pickup artistry, tradwife, traditional gender roles
Publisher: Virtual Pulp Press
Published: 2023-12-21T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13: Broken Heart, Battered Fists

Lupe and I were the center of attention when school got out. Dozens of kids I didn't even know that well approached to get my side of the story.

I walked past where kids were lining up to take the buses, and everyone stared at me.

I still didn't have a driver's license, so I walked down to the river. Lupe and his pals had driver's licenses, so a lot of them were already there, along with a bunch of other kids who weren't friends of either of us, but wanted to see a fight. Cars lined the river bank, and the shoulder of the street nearby. I met Lupe in the shadow under the bridge.

"Basketball practice isn't over yet," he told me, leaning against the fender of somebody's Buick.

"But neither of us are on the basketball team," I pointed out, with a mock-retarded tone and expression that drew snickers and intonations from some in the crowd.

"Not everybody's here," he explained.

"Oh, you need people to hide behind," I said. "Is that it?"

"No," he retorted, but couldn't think of what else to say, though his mouth moved tentatively as if he was about to. I suspect he was a little off-balance because I wasn't backing down and didn't act fearful or even excited, as any sane sophomore should in a showdown with somebody as large, powerful, and fierce as Bakersfield's top defensive end.

I'd been reviewing Dad's martial arts advice in my mind since we sat down together outside the principal's office. I knew better than to underestimate Lupe (or any opponent). The reason I was able to remain calm and businesslike, and even crack wise at Lupe's expense, was because I just didn't care if I won or lost. I didn't care if I got hurt, or humiliated. I wanted to hurt him, and would try my best to do it, but ultimately it didn't matter. Nothing mattered, really.

"How many friends do you need to help before you have the balls to fight me?" I taunted him.

"I don't need anybody to help me," he said, through gritted teeth.

"Then let's go, candy ass."

I knew why he wanted to wait for the basketball team: he wanted an audience to feed his ego. But I didn't need an audience. I didn't care if we had a bigger audience, a smaller audience, or no audience at all. I didn't feel like waiting. So I tried to goad him into getting started sooner, rather than later.

"Keep talking, mariposa," he said, trying to pretend he wasn't ruffled by the insult.

"I guess it's you who's the chickenshit," I said, using small words and simple concepts so he could comprehend the message.

His mouth moved wordlessly again as he glared at me. I began making chicken noises, shuffling around like a hen, flapping my elbows like wings. Some onlookers laughed and others made an "ooooooh!" sound. Another upperclassman, disgusted, said, "C'mon, Lupe. You gonna let this little punk talk to you that way?" I had liked that particular upperclassman until that moment—thought he was a decent guy.

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