He took a big drink of water.

“Mineral water?” Heinrich asked. “Seriously? We live in the First fucking World. We can drink the tap water here, or isn’t that good enough for your delicate sensibilities?”

“Mineral water is healthier. Tap water has numerous trace chemicals such as—”

“Oh yeah, drinking water that’s been stuck in a plastic bottle for God knows how many months is real healthy. Dipshit. Most of these mineral waters are just filtered tap water anyway.”

“Evian isn’t—”

“And real good job on all the plastic you’re wasting. Oh right, your generation doesn’t care about little things like the environment or wars or shit like that. It’s all identity politics and personal pronouns with you.”

Neckbeard turned to him.

“What’s your problem, anyway?”

Heinrich looked him in the eye. “Because you’re a privileged coward and you have no right to be here.”

Finally, he saw a spark of anger in the kid. Heinrich wasn’t sure if Neckbeard had enough residual testosterone to get angry at being called a coward or his sense of entitlement had been injured by being told he wasn’t welcome somewhere. Whatever it was, Neckbeard put his glove back on.

“It’s your funeral,” Neckbeard scoffed.

Heinrich put on his wraps and gloves plus the mouthpiece and padded helmet the law required amateur fighters to wear. He sauntered over to the ring, loosening up his shoulders and throwing a few punches at the air. Heinrich and Neckbeard climbed into the ring from opposite corners. When the rest of the gym saw there was going to be a match, they all gathered around, the newbies curious, the regulars smiling.

“You’re not going to warm up?” Neckbeard asked, meeting him at the center.

“You are my warm up,” Heinrich replied.

Roxy got in the ring, checked both fighters were protected, and announced. “All right, gentlemen and lady,” she bowed and winked to the lone female fighter in the crowd, no doubt earmarked as Roxy’s next conquest. “We’re going to have three rounds of three minutes each. Either fighter can throw in the towel whenever they want. No hitting below the belt and no being a pussy. You square up and do your thing. I’m the referee and if either of you little princesses cross me, it’s me you’ll be fighting next.”

Heinrich grinned as much as his mouthpiece would allow. Roxy was one of the few fighters he feared in here.

“Now go to your corners and when the bell rings, come out fighting.”

Heinrich had already gauged his opponent when the kid had been slugging the punching bag. Neckbeard had the intense energy of a younger man and was equal to Heinrich in strength, but had a fraction less reach and not as much experience. He was also a bit stiff, probably from a lifetime spent posing.

“May the best man win,” Neckbeard said, his voice coming out muffled around his mouthpiece.

“Only one man in here, snowflake.”

The bell rang. Heinrich rushed him.

He figured Neckbeard’s main weakness was a lack of aggression, and he was right.

A couple of quick jabs that the hipster blocked, then a good solid connection to the kid’s ribs. Heinrich ducked back and Neckbeard’s late counterpunch hit nothing but air. Heinrich popped him a jab in the face that was too close to the end of his reach to do more than sting and ducked to the right, thinking Neckbeard would come for him. Instead the kid slid to the side to put more distance between them.

Wimp.

Heinrich moved in, gloves up to stop a right hook that came half a second too late. This guy kept hesitating.

Heinrich didn’t hesitate. He gave his signature combination—a right hook that Neckbeard blocked, followed by a left jab that connected, and a heaving uppercut with his right that landed beautifully.

Neckbeard stumbled back, his fall broken by the ropes.

And Heinrich was on him. Three jabs in quick succession to get the kid hunkering behind both gloves, then a hard hit to the side to surprise him and get his guard to shift down, then a right cross that made Neckbeard’s knees buckle.

The watching fighters ooohed in appreciation.