Fistful of Change

Sam remembered reading somewhere about tough dudes using rolls of quarters as makeshift fist packs in fights. That seemed like just the edge he would need in the situation. Only problem was he didn’t have a roll of quarters handy. He actually wondered who ever kept one around for that sort of thing.

He dug in his console for change, watching Brock across the parking lot. Talking to her. When his hand felt heavy enough, he got out of his car and casually strolled toward Brock.

“Hey,” Sam said.

“What do you want, pussy?” Brock smirked and crossed his arms.

Without further ado, Sam took a swing. Time slowed to a near halt as fist and face collided. Dimes and pennies dug into his fingers. A shower of change jingled to the ground.

It only took a moment for Brock to shake off the blow. Sam braced himself