There were four or five or maybe six of them—they tended to blur together into a mass of slippery unpleasantness and overbearing Axe cologne—and they were excited about the possibility of proving what men they were in defending the honor of some girl’s toe.

Still Myron was nothing if not diplomatic. “I’m sorry, guys,” he said. “But this is an emergency.”

One douchebag said, “Whoa, where’s the fire? You see a fire here, Vinny?”

Vinny: “Yeah, where’s the fire? Because I don’t see one. You see one, Slap?”

Before Slap could speak, Myron said, “Yeah, I get it. No fire. Look, again, I’m really sorry, but I’m in big hurry.”

Still Slap had to get involved: “Nope, I don’t see no fire either.”

No time for this. Myron started to move—damn, no sign of Kitty—but the men closed ranks. Douchebag, with his hand still on Myron’s shoulder, went for the vise grip. “Say you’re sorry to Sandra.”

“Uh, what part of ‘I’m really sorry’ confused you?”

“To Sandra,” he said again.

Myron turned to the girl who, judging by her dress and the company she kept, never got enough attention from her daddy. He shook his shoulder to dislodge the annoying hand. “I’m really sorry, Sandra.”

He said this because it was the best course of action. Try to make peace and move on. But Myron knew. He could see it in the red in their faces, the wet in their eyes. The hormones were engaged now. So as he turned back toward the guy who’d first pushed him, Myron was not surprised to see a fist heading toward his face.

Fights normally last mere seconds—and those seconds are chockfull of three things: confusion, chaos, and panic. So when people see a fist heading toward them, they naturally overreact. They try to duck all the way down or fall all the way back. That was a mistake. If you lose your balance or lose sight of your adversary, you end up, of course, in more danger. Good fighters will often throw blows for just this reason—not necessarily to connect but to make the opponent put himself in a more vulnerable position.

So Myron’s move to avoid the blow was a slight one—only a few inches. His right hand was already up. You don’t have to knock the fist away hard with some big karate move. You just need to divert its course a little. That was what Myron did.

Myron’s goal here was simple: Put this guy down with a minimum of fuss or injury. Myron redirected the traveling fist and then, with the same hand already up, he put his index and middle finger together and snapped a dart blow right at the soft hollow of his attacker’s throat. The blow landed flush. Jerzie Boy made a gurgling sound. Both his hands instinctively flew to his throat, leaving him totally exposed. In a normal fight, if there was such a thing, this was where Myron would put him down for good. But that wasn’t what he wanted here. He wanted to get away.