An old mean fighting machine

I remember there was an old man living in the same building as I am, just in a different apartment. A lot of times I would meet him outside of the building's exit. He would sit there alone or sometimes with a buddy of some sort. From what I knew he was divorced and lived alone. His remaining time he spent sitting outside, drinking beer and smoking.

He was not much of a big guy, skinny, not a tall one either. His nose was broke from a long time ago, all the punches and other sources of damage his face took throughout his life became clearly visible in a form of scarred skin.

He would sit holding his hands down in front of him, most of the time holding a beer bottle with his now a stagnant grip.

From first glance, you could say this man was a fighter. Bold shoulders and strong muscles were the first things you would notice by looking at him. The powerful physique he worked for over his life reduced over time but didn't disappear.

This man has seen some life, some sweat, some pain and blood in the fighter's ring. He didn't need to speak, his look told everything you need to know. Deep and dark look in his eyes told you not to fuck with this man.

Years ago many of the people living in this block knew him, they respected him and called him the champ and he enjoyed that.

But times have changed, many of those people died out from old age or moved out. People began to fear him, they feared to look into his eyes and only a few remained that kept the old man's a company.

One day my neighbor's little brother got beaten down by bullies from school, so my neighbor retaliated and punched those little thugs around a bit. So the little thugs called for help big thugs and the next day a car drove inside parking lot with four mean block thugs ready to slam the lights out of my neighbor.

I remember I was smoking with the old man while the gang waited for the neighbor to get out. As usual, we were just watching the parking lot, and it wasn't a big deal for us to see unknown thugs hanging in front of us in the parking lot, many of suspicious type people walked around that place.

The neighbor got outside not long after to deal with the guys and met us smoking outside. The old man asked the neighbor does he need any help; the neighbor took the old man's offering for help and they both went towards the car and the thugs standing in front of it.

The view was magnificent to say the least – watching the old man putting his fists into the use once again it was like watching an unchained bull on the rampage. He was punching their faces left and right with tremendous force. I could see it in his eyes, he enjoyed remembering what it is like, what he used to be, remembering those better times that are now in the past.

Dodge left, dodge right, turn and a hook leading into a swift uppercut; he was a beast – an old, mean fighting machine. The skills; they never left him.

The fight was short and devastating for the four thugs, but a very entertaining one to watch for me.

After that, the old man came back like it was nothing, opened another bottle, lit up a cigarette and offered me one also. I took it and we continued to do what we were doing before – watching the parking lot and enjoying the bright, sunny day and the solitude.

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