You make your way to the door, ignoring the fact that you don’t have any pants on and haven’t showered for days. Wading through a sea of empty beer cans and Mountain Dew bottles, you reach the door, fumble open the lock, and yank open the door.
“So you finally decided to man up eh, you pants-less, dirty hobo?! Well-“
Seething with a rage only felt by those who have spent the past week watching nothing but day-time television, you punch the old man square in the jaw. He staggers backwards, but regains his balance and lunges at you. He wraps his hands weakly around your aptly-described scrawny neck and tries to throttle you to death. Clumsily throwing out your arms, you pummel him with your fists. He falls to the floor under your torrent of blows, crumbling into a bloody, wrinkly pile of beat-up old man.
People in the neighboring rooms, hearing the commotion, flood into the hallway and gasp at what you’ve done. Several are shouting something at you, probably profanity, but your blood-curdling war cry is too overpowering to hear them clearly.
The confidence in your new-found fighting capabilities bolstered by your victory over a frail old man, you confront the nearest of your hecklers, prepared for a no-holds-barred fight to the death. You smear your face with the blood from your dripping fists and try to rip open your shirt, succeeding only in stretching the collar. Damn, you now look like an idiot.
You lock your eyes onto those of your heckler, who is...