A True Contender

A championship belt demands a real challenge, not just an empty title. While perching on the bluestone curb, a fearless city pigeon strutted into my chalk-drawn ring, pecking aggressively at stray pretzel crumbs. It puffed its chest and refused to yield an inch. Perfect. I set my glass bottle against a weathered brick and squared my heavy boots in a solid wrestling stance. I stomped the cobbles with a thunderous clatter, holding eye contact without flinching. The bird ruffled its neck, stared straight into my glare, and gave a sharp bob of respect before stepping outside the perimeter. The ring remains mine.