Fighting Lessons

"That's it, asshole," snarled the lank-haired man. He swung his fist, impacting John's torso right below the sternum. The man's eyes widened, and he reeled back a step, shaking his hand as though he'd punched a steel door.

Which he functionally had.

John glanced at me over his assailant's shoulder, eyes wide with incipient panic. I mimed grasping my stomach and retching, and John's face lit up.

"Oh, God!" he cried, doubling over abruptly. "My spleen! My spleen is broken! Oh, it hurts!"

I closed my eyes and sighed. Even my expertise at getting beaten up only went so far.

Lessons From My Youth

The sword plunged in, sliding through the unarmored flesh like a hot knife through butter. The youth leapt back with a shout of victory.

A vast, clawed hand closed around his waist. "You know," said the monster, as the youth struggled, "there's a reason that spot doesn't get covered with armor. The reason is a secret. You want to know it?"

The youth gasped, turning red, then purple.

"It's because that spot isn't vital at all." The monster popped the youth into his mouth and chewed. "God, I love the video game generation," he said to no one in particular.