“That I am going to smoke you,” he was off, “on this five mile, track round!”
“You are on.”
Two men. At their peak, nothing but steady respiration and sharp eyes. Somewhere around the four mile mark, a piece of debris offering a minor, negligible, hazard was grounds for something else.
“Fucker, we goin’ spar!”
They did. No ring, in the dirt and right when most we’re s s s they went at it, not intent to kill or maim but holds and improvised tactics.
By the end, a crown of 17 or eighteen followed by fifth Marines were silent as a third phase BUD/s instructor said.
“Not bad. Turbo! Family off limits. Get your asses to dental!”
“Ain’t goin’ be no rematch.”
“I’ll see you bath in alley or grave. Move!”
With a grudge. Marines rescinding silently, then driven into the sea, and destroyed.
They didn’t exchange looks.