Morning Iron

I rolled out from under that plastic crate into the morning air and shook the stiff alley dust off my knuckles. Enough sitting around like dead weight—a brawler needs to keep his arms heavy and his punch lethal. Right against the cracked concrete ramp lay a discarded, grease-blackened steel hex nut, heavy enough to dent a skull. I stood over it, wedged both plastic boots into the rough gravel, and gripped the rusted threads with both hands. I heaved that chunk of cold steel straight up to chest level, grunting through the strain, and held it overhead three times like a championship belt. Dropped it with a brutal clatter on the asphalt. Ready for whatever wants to rumble today.