He was too small, his tiny fists in his pockets, shaking with rage.

They mocked him, he was so young, they kicked him, the way bullies do, knowing there is no way their victim can strike bak, his little face went blue, smeared with tears and their spit.

And, of course, later, he learnt, for months, years, slowly becoming the man he wanted to be.

One day he woke up, looked at himself in the mirror, so composed he was, with all those years of training behind him, all that wisdom, steel and nerves.

And he went back, stood in the square, waiting: and sure enough he saw them, or their siblings, gathering like locusts, so, suddenly, the cool guy disappeared, and in a blue rage he made minced meat of all of them; and the police said “you had a good time here”, and he smiled.