It was true I wasn’t good in a fight, but that didn’t mean I didn’t occasionally have my moments.

The trick was to avoid making it a proper fight, per se.

...

Which was why I brought the box back, and smashed the window with it.

I saw him stop, turning.  Mary turned too, but it was a slow reaction.

I’d seen Gordon in a good fight.  There were moments where I’d seen him throw a punch as his opponent turned their head, so it made the hit worse.  The opposite of rolling with the punches.  I’d fallen in love with the image and tried to emulate it in a fistfight and been kicked in the ribs several times over for my trouble.

In this case, it was pure accident, but he made it happen.  His head turned to look up at me, and the brick-ish box of shingles had already left my hand.  He brought his face straight into it.

I saw spatters of darkness that might have been blood, and I saw his ass hit the wet footpath leading between the door and the road.

Wildbow, Twig, 1.9