Amson, 18, "Stalwart Comradery"

Punch after punch landed on Fuckbelt, but he remained with a stoic expression, the only evidence he was taking any damage being the red discoloration of his skin. It seemed like the guy was just annoyed rather than battered, and I could sense from that look on his face that he was mere seconds from boiling over.

The big guy on top of him made as much noise as possible, making doubly sure that his punches rattled Fuckbelt's head against the fence. Through his wild grunts and groans, he taunted him, laughing his ass off with that cluelessly ridiculous grin.

"You was feeling y'self weren't ya, fuckboy?!" He yelled before turning to the crowd. "Which one o' you mothafucka's want this bitch's seconds?!"

He looked to the crowd, but he was met with the lifeless gazes of the masses. The silence, however, only fueled his ego, and he let go of Fuckbelt completely, standing and boasting to the dead mass of silent eyes.

"Your friend's bit off more than he could chew…" He turned around and spat on Fuckbelt. "All that shit— grounded— for what? Fall chest up for you fucked-up posers? Watching— watching like bitches and playing skatepark with each other's fingers stuck up their asses…"

Someone from the crowd cracked, spitting as they started to laugh at the dude's jab at them. The arrogant thief stopped his train of thought, motioning toward the crowd.

"Who's that?" He said calmly, but when he was met with no answer, his voice rose. "Who the fuck was that?"

Someone finally volunteered themselves, thrusting his hand above the crowd.

"Come over here, man." He gestured, annoyed.

The perpetrator pushed through the crowd, fresh tears staining his white tee. He had a typical skateboarder build, and his fit matched as you'd imagine, tech-wear and skate shoes. He couldn't stop himself from laughing completely, but he tried, hiding it between sniffles.

"What's ya name, man." He asked the skater.

"The gents 'round 'ere call me CQ." He said with an English accent. "Kinda coined it."

"I don' give a fuck what ya friends call ya, bitch." He snapped. "What's ya name?"

"Call me Queef..." He scoffed. "Cock Queef, lad."

The entire crowd could be heard laughing underneath their breath, and CQ could barely hold it in. The thing was, he probably wasn't joking, or at the very least, he gave him his actual pit name. He drew the short end of the stick when it came to nicknames, but with everyone around him laughing, it was probably true that he embraced it and fit his personality.

You could tell that he was a kind of jokester, not something you'd normally expect with such typical, skating attire, but nonetheless, it showed. Even I couldn't help but smile.

"Tell me…" He got closer to CQ's face. "What the hell's so funny, Queef?"

CQ struggled not to laugh, hearing his own nickname.

"N-Nothin'…" He mustered. "Nothin' at all, lad."

The guy backed up, pointing at his facial expression.

"You sure, bitch?" He smiled. "Looks like you could use some water."

CQ chuckled.

"You bet your sweet ass and some chips—" He finally let the laugh go, spitting in hysterics directly into the guy's face.

The entire crowd followed, their murmurs turning into hysterical laughter alongside this British jokester nicknamed "Cock Queef." Deuce and Tyriq joined in similar fashion, and I couldn't do anything but follow suit as we watched the thief's expression turn even more clueless than before.

It was made even more evident that this guy wasn't one of us; his sense of humor wasn't there at all, and I could only imagine how the poor shitbag could've felt with all eyes on him, laughing at his expense alone. He looked upon the crowd, and seeing everyone's goofy laughing must have set him off. He yelled toward us to no avail, barely heard over everyone.

"What the fuck is wrong with you losers?!" He looked down toward CQ, sprawled on the floor. "Tell your BJ crew to shut the hell up!"

He grabbed CQ by the collar, in similar fashion to Fuckbelt.

"It must be shitting ya knickers, uh? Everyone laughing at ya an' all." CQ taunted.

"You'd best watch what you say." He growled.

"Look around ya, lad." CQ pointed behind himself. "Nobody here gives a fucks about ya, an' ya know why? Because its not our place to, not none o' us. You started a fight with ol' Fuckbelt over there, and until he's finished, you'd either deal with us or do what's best for ya."

"What the fuck do you mean by that, huh?!"

CQ pointed forward, this time behind the thief, and there, stood Fuckbelt, unfazed. He wiped blood from his lips, smacked his cheeks with both hands, and assumed a stance I'd never seen before, too disciplined for anything Dutchman. He glared at the laptop thief as he tossed CQ aside, turning around as CQ continued to talk in Fuckbelt's stead.

"The boy, Fuckbelt, over there..." He smiled. "You'd best 'old your 'ead on swivel, bruv. Mothafucka's named Fuckbelt cuz he's a fuckboy black belt in Taekwondo."

The whole crowd hollered his name, chanting as he stood before his attacker, fresher than I'd ever seen him. I could just tell by the air around him that he wasn't only angry but excited all the same, his jipping and jiving along the ground a sure tell. His footwork was something of marvel, as if he was ready to pivot at any given moment, and I could only imagine the power behind those legs, even with those preppy shorts on.

"You up for second--" The big guy started.

"You shut the fuck up." Fuckbelt interrupted. "Your fight's with me; you won't touch my friends."

"Hurt your feelings, huh?" He chuckled, throwing his arms outward in an arrogant, taunting fashion. "Then let's get this shit on. At me, bitch!"

With those words, Fuckbelt approached, his stance changing with every miniscule motion. His opponent still analyzed him with confidence, his stance much more disorderly and goofy. It was much more inline with what I was used to seeing with the inexperienced fighters at Butcher Cross, but all the same, they weren't always novices.

With that confidence, even seeing someone so obviously more trained than he was, to not even flinch... it was either he was actually decent or mentally deficient. The crowd continued to chant as Fuckbelt finally got close to him, but as he got within striking distance, he was met with a powerful swing, wooshing through the air. The crowd "OOH'd" acknowledging the strength of the swing.

Fuckbelt, however, jumped over with ease, spinning through the air like a top before allowing his heel to crash down, ready to smash the back of the guy's skull.