“Nine-oh, game point, buttfucker,” Kevin says with a terminally punchable grin on his imminently slappable face.
“Thank you, Kevin,” you say, squeezing the words out slowly between your bared teeth. “I continue to retain the ability to count in increments of one, and am acutely aware of the fact that your recent goal raised your total score from the previously well-announced eight to a shocking nine by virtue of simple addition.”
Your hands grip the foosball handles tightly. Your entire body is tense with the anticipation of a post-game fistic encounter. It will not be because you lost; you’ve lost plenty of foosball games – most, in fact – and never had a problem.
No, if a fight ensues, it will be because Kevin won.
“Let’s wrap this up, fag,” laughs Kevin. “I’ve got hands to kiss and babies to shake.”
You’re not a fighting man, but rarely do people make it this easy to bring violence against them.