You sometimes wish that life in prison had been perhaps just a little tougher, so you'd know exactly what to do in these situations. If only you'd had to avoid being shanked a few times a week!
The truth is, you went from puppeteering minions as a criminal mastermind to being a fairly average guy in a largely uneventful lockup. Sure, you had diabolical "comeback" schemes and visions of vengeance constantly swirling in your villainous mind, but you've never been a physical type. Which is why you were in the park to begin with, shaping up.
Unknown to the punk (and perhaps even to yourself), you picked up a hint of martial prowess from a guilty pleasure of yours, a movie you watched so many times that the VHS tape fell apart. And then you got the DVD. You've mastered the art of fighting... without knowing how to fight!
"I will bend like a reed in the wind!" you notify the charging punk (referencing another film entirely, to keep a straight face) before stepping aside and falling back for a sacrifice kick. You go down, but get your kicking leg into it and do a number on his ribs. It may have been ungainly, but you have proven a wire cheese slicer to his self-declared big cheesiness.
"OOOoooFFFF!" says the punk leader, dropping first his blade and then his body to the ground. He's doubled up with pain, out of the fight. You struggle to stand, expecting the others to rush you.
Incredibly, two of his cronies fall to fighting with each other! No words were passed, and there was no sign of enmity between them. They just spontaneously decide to "head up," as they say. They go about their business with only grunts of exertion, equally matched. They're obviously competent, and you're relieved you didn't have to take them yourself.
The last punk puts his arm over the shoulder of the girl, who promptly throws her arm around his waist. Both pose in triumph, doing their best to radiate quiet dignity... as if they assume any observer must hold them in contempt for their youth and social status, but they have each other and can take on the world. It's very cinematic and, as with the scrapping punks, you have no idea what brought it on.
Since everyone's paired up, you decide the gasping, grimacing punk leader is your project. You approach and refuse to gloat down at him, gentle in victory.
"I have extracted the mickey from you," you tell Mr. Big. "I have done so with almost surgical skill, employing the streetfighting equivalent of a progressive cheese knife. Truthfully, I prevailed by luck."
Big Cheese lays there, his eyes rolled up to meet yours, cussing between deep breaths. His expression is a shotgun wedding of fury and impotence. He now sports a moustache of park dirt on his sweating upper lip.
You offer a hand to help him up, which he slaps away. You try once more and he surrenders, allowing you to assist him to a pained crouch. The best he can manage.
"Return to the houses of your fathers!" you call loudly to the other four. "Bring back cheese, wine, bread, jam, cigars... all fine things. We shall while away the evening with food and fellowship!"
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