Revisionist by @emy2018

Everything I've told you about this is true. Well except the part about the awestruck passerby who'd exclaimed: "you must be made of iron!!". I made that up. By the time I'd sunk my lightning fist into the last man's jaw and had him grovelling in the stinking drain, there was no one by the street. They'd all fled when the streetboys jumped me. I admit that made me feel a tat sour; no one to relish my small victory with me. And I won't deny that I truly am a man of show.

But I suppose the girl would have to do. The ultimate show is for her by the way. I sure didn't miss the look on her face when I'd told the boys "Guys, make una ball from this place joor, we no get anything to give una", a look of sincere adoration, as she sized my arm, my chest, my will, the way you'd look at a sword that's slain a thousand kings. I could hear her breath catching. I imagined the faint streetlights washing my face in heroic topaz.

So yeah the rest of the story is true. Nothing but truth. It was indeed night time. And I was indeed walking with a fine girl. Her name was Belladonna, said her father named her after the deadly nightshade. Occultic, it'd seemed to me. We were walking to my house at the nape of the long Eddington road, now broken, almost upturned, as though the earth beneath had risen up in defiance of the asphalt. We were taking care to avoid the little pools of water that lounged in her potholes and oozed silently into the clogged drainage. I was wondering why ugly looking streets should have such beautiful names when they jumped us.

Did I mention she'd given off a little scream when they'd peeled out of the dark into sight? A quasi-melodious ejaculation that must have been music to their ears. That was when I'd stepped up. I nudged her behind me and directed a steellike gaze forward, a look that I supposed met all their eyes at once with stones. There were 4 boys in all, clad in jeans and dark hued body-hugs. One of them had a really gentle looking face. It was he who barked, "Heys! Who goes!" Then, as they drew closer, added with a sneer "Oya make una show love." It was to this that I'd given the retort that earned me the eyes of worship from nightshade girl.

Everything to this point is true, of course. But I agree I might have exaggerated some of the subsequent portions. Like where I said I let the gentle man punch me three times in the face and I didn't even blink an eyelid? And where I said I'd blocked his fourth swing with my elbow and ruptured his elbow joint with a sharp jab to the bone. Forgive me, I've been seeing a lot of Bhahubali these days. What really happened was that the guy attempted to hit me and I dodged and spoke sternly to him to calm down.

"Gee. Easy. Easy. Make your blood no dey hot."

That doesn't mean the fight didn't happen.

Belladonna had whispered to me:

"Maybe we should just give them money and pass".

My response had been a stiff whisper forced from between clenched teeth:

"We give these scallywags nothing!"

Wait, no. That didn't happen. Belladonna had only been scared and tugged at my arm, an action that communicated all the things I said she'd whispered above. Truth is, if I'd really said what I just told you I said, I probably wouldn't be here to tell this story. But it's no exaggeration when I say the fight really did happen. I think they lost their patience and lurched at me. They thought I was stalling, bidding time while some vigilante group I'd secretly contacted caught up with them. It was the guy on my left, whose face gave you a vague recollection of stale black soup, that hissed the idea into motion.

"Cargo, make we just mug this bastard commott jare! Him dey waste our time."

Remember that guy I spoke of at the beginning of this story? The last guy in whose jaw I'd sunk lightning fist and had him grovelling in the drain? Right before the passerby had made that exclamation that didn't really happen because there were no passersby at all? I think it was this guy. This black soup recalling guy. I think he was the first to attack too.

I'd pushed Belladonna slightly backward. This is a man's fight, the gesture was supposed to mean. Black soup guy was charging with reckless abandon--

Wait.

Why would he need to do that? I'm just one man.

Okay. Okay. That part too might have been a little exaggerated. I think he'd walked up to me and said something like:

"Guy empty yaself!"

I swear it's true that a hot slap followed that impudence. But it didn't come from me. It came from one of the boys who'd eased behind me. That's how the fight truly started. The blow had almost shattered my skull. It was a fully splayed, evil palm, rammed with impetuous force into my backhead. I'd like to say I didn't even wince. But you'll know its a lie. So let's say I winced a little. Let's also say I let out a little cry, something to massage their black, little egoes before the true walloping began.

Belladonna, of course, must have been scared to her wits. I must have looked at her dripping eyes, her eyeliner smearing down her chin, a smudge of dread, and gone into beast mode. Like Superman when you hurt Lois Lane. Left eye, blue. A blue of icy unforgiveness. Right eye, red. A red of burning vengeance.

This was when I'd turned on them. The guy who'd hit me first; a quick grapple, deft feet sliding behind, heave. He's sprawling on the tarmac, grunting. The gentle faced guy comes at me now. Swinging a weak blow. I dodge it, let him surge uncontrollably under the sheer force of his attempt, then send a crackling karate kick to his skull. Another attempts to drive a spear into my torso, but I'm too mighty to be moved. I keep his head glued to my belly and knee his nuts a few times, relishing the sound of his groans, the image of his eggs rupturing, erupting yolk, relishing the worshipping eyes of nightshade. Then of course, black soup guy, who I didn't even let deliver a punch. Just sank my fist--

Wait.

I agree. This rendition sounds too sweet. You'll begin to suspect me of falsehood. Of Bollywood-hood.

So I concede.

Its not like I'm lying. It's just, I just, you know, amplified some teeny, little things. Like when I said I did that grapple hold and heave thing, maybe that didn't really happen. Then the spear, I think its just my childhood memories of Edge mixing with the actual story. Well, for what it's worth, I was actually on edge. And the gentle faced guy had actually swung at me and missed, I didn't lie about that. Only, that had only enraged black soup guy and...

No. No.
This rendition paints me in too bad a light.
I mean, c'mon! We're talking about a man's ego here.

So what, you want me to tell you this is what really happened? That black soup guy had been the person who'd delivered the actual lightning fist, and it was me who'd actually grovelled in the drain clogged with clammy, black mud; and "you must be made of iron!" was the thought that rippled through my skull in response to the shocking swarm of metallic pain?

You want me to tell you the whole story I told is a lie? You will not hear it from my mouth.