Coming at you

I served a knuckle sandwich today, as T would have said.
I did.
It hit right on the cheek joint and the guy fell to the floor like jacked lumber.
I felt good.
Flora felt bad.
The guy was mad.
But he groped me.
And I didn't charge anything for the knuckles.
Nor the complimentary kick right on his balls.
My Phys ed soccer freak teacher would have been proud if he saw that kick.

Stay frosty. Or beware my almighty anger. It is.