Frank put on a serious, but uninterested look on his face and continued straightening his desk as he spoke, “Word on the street was that you were involved in a brawl last night.”
The sailor put on a bland smile and shook his head, “No sir, just a little misunderstanding.”
Frank locked his eyes on O’Neil with visible disapproval. “Apparently, you messed this boy up and forced him to swallow glass. There were several witnesses that say you started the whole thing.”
O’Neil smacked his lips twice and looked at the ceiling, “He could have just walked away and nothing would have happened. This sounds like sour grapes to me.”
Frank got up, sticking out his chest. “You sound like you want to fight someone a bit tougher… more of a challenge perhaps? Someone like me?”
The Sailor looked shocked. “No sir.” He said, in a measured tone. “I won’t play with anyone wearing oak leaves. Besides, you don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
Jim sat glued to his chair with eyes as big as saucers. O’Neil was almost a full head taller than Frank and each of his arms were larger than both of Franks together. Frank had a small potbelly hanging over his belt, but he was probably just half the larger man’s weight. Frank was going to get killed.
Frank smiled, rubbing his hands together, “No problem O’Neil. There’s no rank involved and no rules, you can do what you want and I won’t tell. Let’s take this outside and may the best man win.”
O’Neil put an assured smirk on his face, did an about face and began to depart Frank’s office. In a flash, Frank grabbed the Monkey’s Fist off the wall and swung it at a fierce arc towards O’Neil’s neck, driving him into the door jam with such force that O’Neil tore one of the swinging doors off its hinges. Jim could only look on with horror as Frank swung the Fist again and again into O’Neil’s ribs and abdomen. O’Neil was in the fetal position on the floor with his face contorted in pain—he no longer resembled a cocky warrior but of a frightened child laying in front of an advancing steam roller.
Frank shifted the Fist into his left hand. “Oh my God!” He said, in a quavering voice. “What have I done?” He held out his right hand to help pick O’Neil up off the floor and gradually helped get him back on his feet. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! Are you OK? Here—let’s get you into this chair.”
Once O’Neil slumped into the seat, Frank swung the Monkey’s Fist back and slammed it between O’Neil’s shoulder blades, spilling him out of the chair and headlong into Frank’s huge oak desk. As O’Neil slid slowly to the floor in a stupor, Frank dropped the Monkey’s Fist and began pounding his own fists into O’Neil’s face, breaking his nose and swelling both of his eyes.
When it was apparent that O’Neil was no longer conscious, Frank stood up and wiped the sweat off his brow. He picked the Fist up off the floor and placed it back on the wall. The savage attack only lasted for ten seconds, but O’Neil was turned from bully to broken wreck. Jim looked at the Monkey’s Fist as it slowly rotated to a stop on the wall, fresh blood shined on the dingy cords. It dawned on him that it wasn’t rust after all.
