Fake It Till You Ace It

Rocco stared at the closed elevator doors, his face twisting into a mask of pure, humiliated rage. He pointed the butterfly knife at Iverson.

"Kill him," Rocco spat. "Break his legs."

The two goons standing behind Rocco roared and charged forward simultaneously, one from the left, one from the right.

Iverson didn't back away. The adrenaline in his blood felt like liquid fire. He stepped directly into their path.

The goon on the left swung a massive, looping right hook aimed straight at Iverson's temple. Iverson simply dropped his center of gravity. The heavy fist sliced through the empty air, the wind of the punch ruffling Iverson's hair.

As he ducked, Iverson planted his left foot and drove his right fist upward in a brutal, flawless uppercut.

His knuckles connected dead center with the right goon's jaw.

The sound of teeth shattering echoed loudly in the narrow corridor. The man's eyes rolled back into his head instantly. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the concrete like a dropped sack of cement.

The left goon froze for a fraction of a second, his brain failing to process how fast his partner had just been put to sleep.

That one second was all Iverson needed.

He pivoted on his heel, using the momentum of his previous punch to spin his body. He launched a devastating roundhouse kick. His shin connected with the left goon's ribcage with a sickening crack.

The man screamed, the air violently forced from his lungs. He flew backward, crashing hard against the cinderblock wall before sliding to the floor, clutching his broken ribs and gasping for air.

Two down. Five seconds.

Rocco and the third goon stood paralyzed. The reality of the violence had just shifted completely.

Iverson's cold eyes scanned the hallway. In the corner, next to the elevator, sat a yellow janitorial cart. Sticking out of the bucket was a heavy-duty mop with a thick metal handle.

Iverson lunged for it. He grabbed the metal pole, pulled it out, and slammed the wet mop head onto the floor. He stepped on the plastic base and violently yanked the metal pole upward. The plastic snapped.

He now held a four-foot, thick aluminum pole. It was heavy, industrial-grade metal, completely unforgiving.

The third goon pulled a black steel baton from his jacket and rushed forward with a battle cry.

Iverson didn't even turn his body completely. He gripped the pole with both hands and thrust it backward like a spear.

The blunt end of the aluminum pole drove deep into the third goon's stomach.

All the breath left the man's body in a wet gasp. He folded forward, instantly dropping his baton. Before he could hit the ground, Iverson whipped the pole around and brought it down viciously on the back of the man's knees.

The goon dropped to the floor, screaming in agony, completely disabled.

Now, it was just Rocco.

Rocco's hand was shaking so violently the blade of his butterfly knife vibrated. He was backing away, his eyes wide with absolute terror.

Iverson lowered the thick metal handle. He let the tip drag against the concrete floor. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. The sound was slow, rhythmic, and terrifying. He walked toward Rocco like a predator cornering a wounded animal.

Rocco screamed, a desperate, high-pitched sound, and lunged forward, thrusting the knife wildly toward Iverson's chest.

Iverson's eyes were dead. He stepped slightly to the right, letting the blade miss him by inches.

With a fluid, merciless motion, Iverson swung the heavy aluminum pole. It smashed directly into Rocco's right wrist.

The bone snapped with a loud pop.

Rocco shrieked like a slaughtered pig. The knife clattered to the floor. He grabbed his broken wrist, falling to his knees.

Iverson didn't stop. He stepped behind Rocco, dropped the pole horizontally across the man's throat, and pulled back, placing him in a brutal chokehold.

Rocco gagged, his hands clawing uselessly at the metal pole crushing his windpipe.

Iverson leaned down. His lips brushed against Rocco's ear. His voice was a terrifying, quiet whisper.

"If you ever look at Brenda again," Iverson breathed, "I won't break your wrist. I'll break your neck. Do you understand me?"

Rocco nodded frantically, tears and snot streaming down his face, choking on his own saliva.

Suddenly, the piercing wail of police sirens erupted from outside the building. Heavy boots slammed against the lobby floor below.

The cops were here.