How to Win a Fight

"I don't wanna fight, man." Vernon looked at the slick-haired, expensive-clothed man standing in his personal space. The crowded bar was dim and modern, as slick as the man's hair. "And I didn't want your fucking beer all over my pants. We both get to be disappointed. Outside!" Vernon shrugged and headed for the parking lot. His friends begged him to ignore the bully, but they followed. The bully's friends came too, enthusiastic.

The two groups formed a circle on the sidewalk, Vernon and his opponent in the middle. Vernon shrugged off his jacket. "That's right," said the other man. "Time to do this." He handed his jacket to one of his jeering friends. Vernon unbuttoned his cuffs. "Yeah, okay." The bully rolled up his sleeves, then frowned when Vernon took off his shirt.

"What are you doing, man?"

"Getting ready to fight." Vernon slipped off his shoes and unbuckled his belt.

"Stop it, freak. Let's go!"

"Not 'till I'm ready." Vernon stepped out of his pants. He hooked his thumbs into his waistband.

The man flinched. "Fuck this freak! Let's go!" He and his friends left, hurling insults behind them.

"And that's how you win a fight," Vernon said.

Not One Thing

"What do you look so happy about?" Jean pulled the apron over her head and tied it in back, then pulled out flour for the day's baking. "What do you mean?" Marcus finished getting the coffee going.

"No one grins like that at four in the morning. So give." Tubs of butter and jams followed the flour onto the counter.

Marcus grinned. "So, I like this girl. Last night... we kinda got together. Nothing could spoil my mood today."

"Nothing?" Jean's eyes narrowed.

"Not one thing," Marcus said. "Look, whatever you're planning, save it for after the first load's in the ovens, yeah?"

Jean tried everything she thought of. She put the wrong syrup in his coffee, spilled ink on his shirt, and texted his ex on his phone. After each attempt, he smiled and shook his head.

Walking out to the bus stop after their shift, Jean said, "So, nothing, huh?"

With the same grin, Marcus said, "Yeah. Noth—"

Light flared in the sky, hurting their eyes. When they looked back, a mushroom cloud rose on the horizon. Jean gaped in shock.

"It's stupid," he said, "but I'm still happy. At least she and I got one night together."

You Bumped Me

Two AM, a dim street, almost deserted. Don managed to bump into someone anyway. Someone following him would mark it as the fourth person he'd run into. "Watch it, asshole," Don said. "You watch it, you little shit. You bumped into me." The guy stopped and faced him directly. Don had to work not to smile.

"Are you blind, motherfucker? You bumped me."

"Whatever." The guy turned away.

"Don't walk away from me!" Don shoved him. The guy turned around swinging a fist but Don stepped out of range and raised his fists. "You wanna take me?"

"Leave me alone, man." The guy looked ready for a punch. "I'm just going home."

"Not without a beating."

He drew a small gun from behind his back. "Just walk away."

"Oh, God." Don fell to his knees. "I'm sorry, please, please don't kill me. Please!" The abrupt change puzzled the man. Don crawled forward on his knees until he was close enough to grovel. "Please, please don't shoot—" Don twisted the gun in the man's hands and pulled the trigger over and over, discharging multiple rounds into the stranger.

"—me," Don finished with a smile. Mentally rehearsing his story, Don dialed 911.

If It Would Be Appropriate

Rich answered the door and found a short, young woman in blue coveralls with a ponytail of straight chestnut hair and a bright smile. His first thought was that she was cute. He wondered if it would be appropriate to ask her out. "Yes?" he said.

"Richard Landry?" Her voice was warm. It made him feel warm.

"That's me." He smiled, hoping it was as nice as her smile.

"Great. I'm here on business." He glanced at her card as he took it: Reclamation Services. "I'm hoping you can help me."

"Well, I'm pretty sure my car is paid up." Was that suave? He hoped it was suave.

"Oh, it's not that. Are you familiar with reincarnation?"

Rich's smile slipped. She was cute and cheery, but Rich was regretting being so friendly. "Um, I guess? Souls being reborn and stuff. Are you... evangelizing?"

"Nope." She grinned. "If you'll just come with me, I can explain."

"Go with you? Where?"

"You'll see. C'mon. It's time, Richard." He barely felt her gentle hand on his elbow, but it pulled him forward, inexorable. As he followed her, he looked at the card again.

"Oh," he said. "So... want to get a drink sometime?"

The Future and Stuff

"Hey, you know how I sometimes go into a trance and have visions of the future and stuff?" On her back on the couch, Martine kept reading. "No."

"It's totally a thing," Donnie said. "And I just had the weirdest vision." He waited, but Martine didn't ask what it was. "Everything else was exactly like it is now, except you were getting me a soda."

"Yeah? What kind?" Her voice was flat.

"Pepsi, with three ice cubes."

"How disturbingly accurate." Martine set down her book.

"I know, right? Well, just let me know when you're getting that soda."

"No, not that bullshit. My vision of you acting like a dick, just like this." Donnie snorted. "Of course, my vision kept going."

"What came next?" Donnie asked.

"Mysterious agents knocking on the door."

"What a load of—" Donnie stopped when someone knocked on the door.

"Which is why I prepped this." Martine reached under the couch and tossed something to Donnie, who looked up at her with wide eyes when he realized he was holding a revolver.

"What the fuck, Martine!"

"You'd rather let them dissect me? Let's go." She rolled off the couch into a crouch. "We're taking the window."

A Final Swipe

Zayla finished off the window with a final swipe of the squeegee. Three storeys above the ground, her gaze lingered on the open space behind her before falling reluctantly on the next window to wash. With a sigh, she pushed the lever that slid her platform over to that window. As her hands worked, her mind wandered. With so much open air around her, it seemed almost obscene that she be trapped within the bounds of this platform. Window half soapy, half wiped clean, Zayla stopped. She wanted out. She wanted freedom.

She pushed the lever, letting the mechanical arm lift her to the roof. Her mind wandered. Once she reached the roof, she would step off the platform, leave the truck for someone else, and disappear into the street.

When she returned from her thoughts, she saw she'd overshot the roof and was still rising. She'd thought the cherry picker topped out at four storeys, but she was still rising. The roof was already three storeys below. Was she even attached to the ground any more?

She didn't know. A grin blossomed on her face, and she kept her hand on the lever. She was going to find out.

A Metaphorical Duel

Azamon drew his blade and smirked. He was larger and faster than his opponent, with far greater reach. His salute was so lazy it could only express contempt. Idien's blade was smaller, shorter, and more apt to bend than her foe's. So was she. "Must we?" Her smile was sad but genuine.

"Make ready," Azamon said. "I am the best swordsman in the land, and soon the only one."

"I don't think it works like that," Idien said, but she saluted just the same. Nervous bystanders watched, quiet.

In the first pass, Azamon's rush knocked her to the ground, and she barely rolled away from his follow-up thrust. She was barely back on her feet when Azamon attacked again. Idien's last-second parry left her sword chipped and her on one knee, her ankle twisted.

Azamon loomed over her. "I deliver books faster and cheaper with greater selection than you could dream. Why should I let you live?"

"You? You shouldn't." Idien nodded at the crowd. "But they will." Azamon stood back as the crowd helped her to her feet and stood beside her.

"Why?" he roared. "I'm cheaper, faster, better! Why?"

She paused in thanking those around her. "I'm nicer."