Survival Of The Fittest

Aiden, he had a certain way of words.

That wasn't a begrudging compliment. No. Bradley did feel, not diluted at all by his unadulterated glee at having found yet another target with such shamefully thin skin, that Aiden was a guy he could grow to like. Of course, he doubted such feelings would be reciprocated. Alas, that is the price he had to pay, for uncovering this goldmine of irritability and fragility in the first place, for removing the facade and unveiling Aiden's true weakness for the whole world to see.

A crabby and cantankerous edge to him that had just been unveiled, plus a certain flowery eloquence, a gift of gab, a rhetorical je ne sais quoi, combined to make him really fun to annoy. He had an easy wit in these moments of anger, a torrent of abuse flooding out of his mouths at a pace and with a seething intensity that Bradley could only respect. The strategy - attempting to put Bradley on the defensive - was palpable, and though it was doomed to fail and horrifically counterproductive, Bradley still respected ol' Beaky for having the tenacity to stick with it.

Of course, Bradley knew not to interrupt the tirade. It was hard to hold in his laughter, hard to resist the urge to twist Aiden's words to make it sound like Beaks was the one insulting his own flesh and blood, but oh so worth it.

It was comedy gold. Too good to be interrupted. And hell, Beaks was replenishing his arsenal, giving him ammunition for later. He really was a nice guy at heart. So considerate, even without intending to be.

He allowed a few seconds, for emotions to simmer down somewhat. For the outburst to sink in, make its impact known. Bradley nodded, and stepped out away from the table, as if to once again raise Aiden's hopes, that his wishes would be respected.

"Sure." He smiled. "I feel ya."

"I'll go polish my pole!" A thumbs up, just to make his sincerity unambiguous. "Any pictures of your sister, by the way?"

Aiden's hand shot forward, stopping only inches away from Bradley's throat. He was practically on top of the table now, first time in a long while he fucking cursed himself being a goddamn dwarf, but he was still going to go fucking Tyrion on that bitch, fuck!

Hand clawin' at the air, ready to fucking rip that fucker's fucking vocal cords out his fucking neck! Wanted to hurt, hurt him so bad, make him fucking suffer, fucking punch his face and teeth in, put him in the fucking ground, make him fucking choke on the devil's cock!

"You motherfucker!"

No more words left in his brain. Just one fucking wish, one goddamn psycho ass urge and fuck if he cared about the fucking consequences, that pisser was dead, so he fucking was!

"You fucking take that back, you fuckin' apologize right now, you fuckin' tosser, shit munchin' fuck! Say you're sorry, or I'll fuckin' make you be sorry, you fucking wanker!"

Say what you will about Bradley, but the guy had an unflappable collected ease around him. He didn't balk from confrontation or back down from what he believed in and, less admirably, what he found funny. He moved back only an inch, the barest concession to reflexes, at Beaks's agitation. Aiden was, as always, giving him much in the way of plentiful ammunition. He could have had a field day with the word 'wanker' alone - such a cute and coy word, which also happened to be one that, hell, Bradley had just agreed with, and a narrative that Aiden's sister fit perfectly into.

But no, he was a precision comedian, and would seize upon one sentence in particular.

"I'm a motherfucker?"

He loved being called that word. Was always super-easy to twist, to turn back on his opponent's head, to use its literal meaning as fodder for some other joke. And it flowed perfectly from the conversation they had been having.

"I mean, a picture of your mother would suffice. Although, nah, a picture of your sister would be so much more useful."

In hindsight, Bradley had no idea how old Beaks's sister was. Shoulda asked about that first. Ah well.

Every muscle in his body was frozen for a moment. Didn't move, just stared at the piece of shit there right in front of him, chest hurtin', felt like he was gonna fuckin' melt. It was like he took a sec to realize what the fuck the guy had just said. Like he couldn't believe it, couldn't believe this dude was the single  biggest motherfuckin' ass-munchin' asshat he had ever met in his entire life.

Still silence. Silence before the goddamn storm. He was gonna get this fucker, get him good. Fuck the school, fuck everybody, only teachin' that lowlife the lesson of his pathetic  worthless fuckin' life was gonna matter. He could hear himself breathin'. Pumpin'. Like he was gonna explode, literally, fucking splatter everything with blood. Was still gonna happen. Right now. Had given that fuckin' fuck enough chances, so he had.  End of the motherfuckin' line.

Fuckin' payback.

"Have it your fucking way, you son of a bitch." Wasn't even yelling. Speakin' through his fuckin' teeth. Wild animal, about to go berserk. It was only right. Felt so fuckin' right. Fuck. Fuck.

Aiden jumped forward, used the bench he had sat on just seconds ago like a spring board, arms stretched out, aiming for that fucker's neck. He was practically launching at him, straight across the table, fuckin' cheetah in attack mode, ready to maul the prick, maim that fuckface.

He opened his mouth to press out an anguished yell and then he felt the impact.

"Son of a bitch? I mean, your insults really do derive from the maternal-"

Bradley's snark was cut off, and he was not wholly expecting it. He was used to Aiden's type: blustering, blubbering oafs, easily offended, riled up but ultimately too pathetic to do anything more than huff and puff and throw almost endearingly efficacious little tantrums. They were too pathetic, pussies really, to ever make a serious effort at mounting any kind of defence of the values that they apparently held so dear, the lines they were so extravagantly insistent should never be crossed.

Hyperbole, lofty and pompous rhetorical flourishes. That was what he expected from the sort like Aiden. Any man - sorry, boy - so defensive of his family's honour wouldn't get into a fight: that'd upset mommy. At the most, they'd squeal, snitch, tell, whatever. Fucking Benedict Arnold all over again.

So he was surprised when Aiden actually had cajones.

"Woah!"

Thankfully, he responded without being too much of a bitch about it. They fell to the floor, Bradley instinctively pressing his palms against Aiden's shoulders and face, trying to get some breathing room.

He couldn't see, couldn't fucking see a thing. Something in front of his eyes, pressing against his face, something warm. Prolly that fucker's hand. Wanted to bite it, make it go away.  He didn't though, instead just threw his head back and forth, tried to shake it off.

They were on the floor now, impact hadn't hurt him much, prolly hurt that fucking weasel way more, fucking deserved. Only the first bit of pain he was about to get, that son of a rancid ass mongrel bitch.

His own hands were clawin' at Bradley's face and neck, tried to get a good hold of him, choke all that fucking grub out of him, together with all of his oh-so-clever bullshit. Squeeze his eyeballs out or something, that fucker needed to fuckin' pay.

Aiden's leg were now intertwined with Bradley's, he was half-sitting on top of the motherfucker, though he barely even registered it. His mind was somewhere else, he was shakin' and trembling with anger and goddamn rage and things needed to die. Why'd he have to be such a fucking midget? Would have been fucking easy wiping the floor with the bastard otherwise.

Fuck it. He was still putting that shit stain down.

One of his hands stopped tugging at Bradley's shirt and went for the side of his head instead, pulling at his hair with full force.

"Fucking...fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!"

Bradley kept his left hand pressed against Aiden's face, but his right hand broke away, knowing that he had to actually protect himself. Teach the touchy asshole a lesson, throw some punches, at centre mass, deflect the few blows he saw coming. Aiden had some sharp claws. Bradley woulda made a quip - on the theme of beaks or girliness or something - but shit. He was tossing his head from side to side, not letting Aiden get a good hit in.

But most of his force was channelled into his left hand. His palm pushed against Aiden's nose, hoping that would maximise the disruption to the senses, throw the feisty and petulant shithead off. Had to cover his eyes a little bit. Push back his face at the same time. Inflict some pain, but not too much. Didn't want to be mistaken for the aggressor here. He wasn't. Ah fuck, maybe he had gone too far this time.

And that thought only happened to coincidentally coincide with the sharp pain as Aiden tugged at his hair. Ah, fuck, that hurt. He grimaced, closing his eyes. Couldn't show weakness. Not now, not never. He wasn't thinking straight. Just thrashing about. Trying to dislodge this obnoxious little shit off him. All he knew was that he had maybe gone too far, but couldn't back down now. Shit.

He felt Aiden's anguished words against his hand. Felt them more than heard them. Accompanied by the spray of spit. Urgh. Immediately distracted again by another tug. Another rush of pain. Moving with his hair folicles. Aiden was really trying to tear them out. Fuck. This couldn't go on. He closed his eyes again, blinking back the few drops of tears that threatened to be prompted out. Wouldn't give in so easily.

Moved his hand, to the side of Aiden's head. Half to escape the barrage of spit, half to mimic his actions. The strategy might be more effective here. Had space to pull Aiden's head back. Lift him up a bit. Take back control.

His other hand, shit, Bradley didn't even know. Maybe it was just flailing about, limply and ineffectively. Or maybe it was doing damage. It was clenched, making contact with skin every now and then. He didn't know.

His left hand finally grabbed onto Aiden's hair, a bit of his earlobe too. His arm stretched back, hoping to yank Aiden off.