Being hit hurts. That’s the whole point of hitting you hit someone to hurt them and stop them hurting you back.
There are a number of things that you can do when being hit in the face. The first is to give in to the pain. Being hit hurts, even the biggest and toughest of bruisers have to admit that to themselves, even if only on a sub-conscious level.
Giving into the pain usually results more pain, as the attacker continues to pile into you and beat you to a pulp. So that’s not really an option.
The next thing you could do is to try and reason with your attacker. Attempt to connect with them on an emotional level and help them see that hitting you is not a nice thing to do and that they should stop. Usually reason has gone out of the window by that point. Things have been said and done that can only be fixed by the application of physical force and blunt trauma. unfortunately there are many reasonable people out there who still believe that reasoning with someone is a valid form of self-defence even when the attack has commenced. The reasoning phase has well and truly been passed by that point.
Another option is to try to block and dodge the blows that your foe is attempting to land upon your personage.
Again this is a very flawed option. Granted your attacker might only throw the one punch out of frustration, but if they continue to do so your chances of dodging or blocking every blow lowers with every blow thrown. What this means is that in the end you’re going to take a hit. Depending on where this hit lands, your ability to dodge or block more of the blows continues to decrease until your defences are worn down and the tracker can strike you at will.
The final option is to hit back, whilst tying to dodge and block the attacks. By hit back, we’re jot talking about throwing a good shot and then trying to get them to back off and leave you alone, we’re talking about hitting them so hard and so often that they are too busy dodging, blocking and wincing that they can’t spare the time to strike back at you. To act with violence and intent.
This is the option that Blaise took. His whole body shook as the flat-nose bruiser in front of him slammed home a shovel hook that threatened to force his lungs from his body.
GOOD GOD! he marvelled at the fact he could find breath to think, even as his own right cross ploughed into his opponent’s face.
Like most men of their age, both were veterans of the Great War, their skills honed in the streets and trenches over years.
His opponent had lived a harder life than he had however. His nose was smashed flat, battered into submission by repeated blows. There were gaps in his teeth, either punched out or lost as a result of the Spanish Flu. Finally, a scar bisected his lips, making him look as though he had a hairlip.
Another sledgehammer blow came crashing into Blaise’s arms as he barely managed to get them ip in time.
He snapped out a wicked front stab kick, hitting his opponent’s shin with his steeled Loake Brogues. The pain reached his opponent’s brain almost instantly and his arms dropped for a split second.
A split second was all he needed. Blaise hooked both hands around his opponent’s neck and drove a rear knee into his stomach.
Still holding on he wrenched the man around and drove his right leg forward and down, toes outward, pushing threw the man’s knee with a wet crack.
The fight was finished a bare millisecond later as he slammed an elbow into the now exposed throat. Letting go, he dripped the now limp attacker to the floor.
He swayed as he sucked in breath, trying not to vomit as the pain of at least three broken ribs hit home. Finally, he turned and looked at the man behind the desk.
‘You are in deep fucking trouble Mr Blackmore. Deep, fucking trouble.’ Blaise’s voice was still hoarse from the fight and all the more menacing for it.
‘Now, now Inspector! I’m sure we can find a solution amenable to the both of us. I didn’t realise who you were until William had already attacked you. He’s a simple soul and quite tenacious once he gets started.’ Blackmore slowly started to count five pound notes off a pile in front of him, a greasy smile flickering across his face. Even though he’d taken no part in the fight, beads of sweat rolled down his face.
‘Steven Hope Blackmore, you are charged with profiteering, smuggling, Treason and trying to bribe an officer of His Imperial Majesty’s government. Consider yourself under arrest.’
‘Wait! I have a thousand pounds here, more than most make in ten years! Take it, let me go.’
Blaise stepped forward and slapped the five pound notes out of Blackmore’s hands. He stood over the cowering black marketeer, pinching his nose with frustration.
‘You stupid pig! I’ve got lawyers that will have you wishing you’d never fucking laid hands on me! My customers pay your fucking salary you piece of stupid shit!’ spittle flew from Blackmore’s mouth, coating Blaise’s favourite suit.
‘Fuck it’. The words had barely left his mouth before he drew his pistol and shot Blackmore in the face. He reached forward and plucked Blackmore’s handkerchief from his top pocket, and wiped himself down. Pocketing the notes that weren’t blood spattered, he turned and walked out.