Chapter 5 - THE DISASSEMBLY
Logan folded forward, clutching his stomach, his mouth open in a silent scream as his diaphragm went into spasms. He was practically handing me his head on a silver platter. I could have ended it with a knee to the face, breaking his orbital bone and sending him to the hospital with a concussion. But I wasn't an animal, and despite his arrogance, I didn't want to permanently ruin the kid's life.
I wanted to teach him a lesson he would never, ever forget.
As he doubled over, I stepped to his outside flank. I reached over his back with my right arm, threading my hand under his left armpit, securing his neck in a modified front headlock. At the same time, I hooked my left leg behind his right knee. With a sharp, synchronized yank backward and a sweep of my leg, I sent him crashing to the grass for the second time.
But this time, I didn't stand over him. I descended with him.
The transition was seamless, a violent ballet of kinetic energy. Before his back even fully settled on the turf, I had transitioned into full mount, pinning his hips firmly to the ground with my knees. He was gasping for air, blindly throwing punches upward that possessed no power. I deflected them effortlessly.
"Get off him!" Richard Whitmore screamed. He dropped his phone, finally realizing this wasn't a viral triumph, but a live-streamed execution. He took a step onto the grass, his face pale.
"Take one more step, Richard, and you're next," I barked, my voice echoing with the absolute authority of a commanding officer. The sheer command in my tone froze him in his tracks. He didn't take the step.
Logan, still unable to breathe properly, tried to bridge his hips to buck me off—a standard jiu-jitsu escape. I rode the movement, shifting my weight perfectly, trapping his right arm against his chest. I slid my left knee up high under his armpit, isolating the limb entirely.
I grabbed his right wrist with both hands. He realized what was happening and desperately tried to grip his own shorts to prevent the lock, but his grip strength was severely compromised by the shock to his solar plexus. I applied agonizing, precise pressure, peeling his fingers away from his shorts.
I extended his arm straight out, pulling it tight against my chest, and leaned back slightly, applying upward pressure to his elbow joint. It was a textbook straight armbar.
"Tap," I commanded, my voice cold and loud.
Logan gritted his teeth, shaking his head, his ego still fighting a battle his body had already lost. He tried to squirm, trying to relieve the pressure, but I adjusted my hips, locking the joint out further. A sickening pop sounded in the quiet suburban air as his elbow hyper-extended a fraction of an inch.
Logan let out a high-pitched, agonizing scream.
"Tap out!" I yelled, increasing the pressure by a millimeter. "Tap, or I snap it completely!"
His left hand frantically slapped the grass. Tap. Tap. Tap.
The surrender was absolute.
I instantly released the pressure, uncoiling from his body and standing up in one fluid motion. I stepped back, adjusting the collar of my flannel shirt, my breathing completely even.
Logan lay in the grass, clutching his right elbow to his chest, sobbing violently. The invincible gym hero was completely broken, not just physically, but psychologically. He had been taken apart, piece by piece, by a woman he had severely underestimated.
The crowd was dead silent. There were no cheers, no murmurs. Just the sound of Logan crying and the distant chirping of birds. They looked at me as if I had suddenly sprouted wings and horns. The quiet, boring lady in the blue house was suddenly the most terrifying entity on the block.
I looked over at Richard Whitmore, who was staring at his son in horror.
"He's not seriously injured," I told Richard, my voice devoid of emotion. "Hyperextension of the elbow. Ice it for a week. But you," I pointed a finger at the father, "you are the reason he just got humiliated. You built a false god out of an arrogant boy. Don't ever bring him to my property again."
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I turned my back on them, walked up the steps of my porch, and closed my front door with a quiet, definitive click. The battle was over, but I knew the war was just beginning.
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