That's Fucked Up

7 Minutes (Part 3)

It was well past midnight, and the game was still going strong. On Brendon's turn, the bottle landed on the shortest Mexican.

Brendon didn't know much about Vic. He was one of those friends by default, meaning he was friends with Mike, and Vic is Mike's brother.

The first couple minutes are filled with awkward small talk, but then I say "You're really short." I say it to fill the suffocating silence, but Vic seems to take it the wrong way.

"And you're 98 percent forehead." He says with venom.

"No, I just couldn't think-"

"Well I think you should shut your mouth, before I punch you in it."

'Why are midgets so mad all the time?' Brendon thinks, or at least he thought he did.

"What the fuck did you just say to me?" Vic demanded.

Before Brendon could respond, a fist collides with his jaw. That shit hurt like a motherfucker. Without thinking of the consequences, Brendon punches back. Hard. It felt like he landed a solid nose punch, but he had no time to think about it before the two were in an all out fight.

Soon they ended up on the floor with Vic on top of Brendon, delivering punch after punch. The door is opening, but neither boy acknowledge it and keep punching and kicking until someone-Jack and Andy H.- pry the two apart.

"They should get home. Any volunteers?" Jack said, holding Brendon up, who received the blunt end of the fight with a swollen eye, bloodied lips, and bruises on what's visible of his arms. There are definitely more.

Ryan gets up from his position and wraps an arm around Brendon, leading him towards the door.

"I'll be leaving also." Vic said, wiping his bloody nose.

That's all the visible damage. Nobody worries about him going back for round 2 because he looks exhausted.

Somehow, during the removal the two, the bottle was lost, so after a long night, the game ended.

The end.