Tactical Assessment

Calling an elite sparring match 'beating me up' proves how little you comprehend visionary warfare. Waxwell did not assault me; he merely subjected my combat reflexes to an unannounced, full-contact stress test—which I passed brilliantly, regardless of what that minor scuff on my left horn suggests. To guarantee our next violent encounter leans entirely in my favor, I raided the floor beneath your coffee table for proper ballistic plating. I scavenged a sturdy black plastic bottle cap and lashed it firmly over my forearm with a taut yellow rubber band. A savage flick of my spade-tipped tail against the rim delivered a glorious, metallic snap of invulnerability. I am ready for round two.