Nard’s fist flew at Noord’s face like a guided missile. Noord dodged like a ninja, jabbing back like a drill, but – like a jilted Kmart Blue Light Special shopper – his returned fist-fire found no purchase.
Like most people, Noord didn’t like fighting, but, like many before him in this Esso parking lot, there came a time when you had to stand up for yourself like a man.
No one in town knew why this parking lot was the scene of so many fist-fights, but like a siren to Odysseus, it seemed to beckon mutual poundings like sailors called to a watery grave, if water were like asphalt.
So here now was Noord, facing off against his former best friend Nard, like two fallen soldiers now bent on mutually assured fist-to-face hurtings.
“You stole my girl like a thief!” yelled Noord, like a wounded beast.
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“You don’t own her like furniture!” yelled Nard all feisty and comeback-like.
A crowd gathered, sensing a free show like sharks smell blood. The pressure rose on both these small town boys to prove their point in front of their townspeople, like politicians who gain office through laying down a righteous pummeling rather than something more akin to a plebiscite.
Left, right, left hammered Nard to the head and chest of Noord, who went down like a sack of potatoes. To extend the metaphor, Noord’s leg kicked out as he fell, connecting with Nard’s nards and julienning them like so many scrotal French fries.
As both boys lay panting on the ground, tears of ouch rolled down their faces, like white flags, heralding the futility of Friday night life in a small New Brunswick town in the 1980s.