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November 30th, 2019, 7:30 p.m.
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Marvin scooped a forkful of fluffed eggs into his mouth, his other hand drenched his shortstack buttermilk pancakes with diabetes inducing amounts of syrup. At the counter, Elanor, a stout Welsh woman whose hair had long greyed and was beginning to thin out. She donned an apron smeared with ingredients which had long become unidentifiable. As usual, the inside of the diner smelled of cigarette smoke--the widower of three years had picked up the habit in the event of the death of her husband, Vinny, who was the owner of the restaurant for well over thirty years. If one were being gracious, he would remark that Vinny's had seen kinder days, Vinny was obsessive about keeping the place clean; Elanor, not so much. Marvin helped where he could, during downtimes in training camp or when he was on vacation he often stopped by and helped mop, sweep, wash the windows, whatever was needed. It was in this small diner where Marvin watched his first boxing match on Vinny's old black and white television which sat above the ever decaying refrigerator where Vinny used to keep ice cream and popsicles for the kids of the neighborhood.

"I saw your little match there." Elanor boasted, smoke plumed after her grizzled exclaim.
"Yeah? You seen how I dropped 'im?" Marvin added in play.
"Hook still needs a little work. You know how Vin' used to say--"
"If you're gonna hit the fella, make sure he remembers it when he's [i]dreamin'[/i] too!" both joyed in unison with a laugh.

Marvin sawed a healthy piece of pancake from its comrades and gave it a new home in his mouth. Succulent processed syrup helped the thick breakfast food swim efficiently to its death down his esophagus. Elanor enjoyed another toke from her cigarette before he ashed its remains; her silver eyes danced over Marvin's heightening afro and to the garrison of black vans arriving outside. Their headlights were rather bright considering it was nowhere close to the dead of night. Once they shut off, Elanor spoke again,

"Popular place tonight! We haven't had these many people 'round here since '99." Elanor chuckled. Her mood switched near as quick.
"I take it these ain't no friends of yours, honey?" there was the cock of a shotgun.

Growing up in a city where the mob reigned supreme for nearly five decades, everybody had to be tough, no matter what their vocation was. Forklift driver, schoolteacher, boxer, 60 year old widow shop owner. Everyone had to be alert, too, but at some point the citizens of Las Vegas had grown tired of 'being aware' all the time, and once the FBI cracked down on the mob in the eighties and the big money from the casinos had all but gone, the mob had virtually disappeared. So did the people they used to intimidate, if not by nefarious means then by their own volition; no one wanted to stick around to wallow if the mob so happened to regain the power they once had over Sin City. In the wake of the great flight, Vegas became little more than a glorified tourist attraction; those who remained were leftovers from a hardened generation of blue collar men and women who were afraid of no one, no matter who they were.

"These days, Miss Elanor, I don't got many friends, no." Marvin sighed.
"You know this is gonna get messy, right?" There was almost a glow of excitement on Marvin's face. He hadn't been in a real street fight since he almost got locked up for hitting Darrell Cartwright with a wrench when he was 15.
"I've always been good at cleaning up messes, honey. Take it around back, I'll be ready."

The men began to exit the vehicle. Ironic enough, they weren't dressed in more concealing clothes; colorful Polo and Hawaiian shirts splintered the more "flamboyant" members from the "quiet" ones. Each had hands covered with black gloves, and each had a unique weapon of choice: crowbar, metal bat, hammer, 2x4, switchblade. The most average sized man of the group lead the procession toward the glass door where the "Open" sign hung. He shifted the door open and stepped inside, along with six others. Marvin examined each with calculated fire.

[i]Smallest one, switchblade. He's probably the quickest; uppercut works best. Lighter mass carries.
Two of 'em my size, body shots. Weave, try and disarm them. They probably will catch my ass eventually.
One tall, lanky. Not much power, lot of reach. Stay out of his range. Don't have to worry about him otherwise.
Two big dudes. Too much muscle, if they get me it's over. Gonna need something for them.[/i]

As the average sized man went to the counter, Marvin slipped the fork and the knife into his hoodie. The 'average sized man' spoke up.

"Make this easy, yeah?" he leaned in, "no screams, an' if ya so much as [i]look[/i] like ya gonna call the cops, well, I'm sure you know what's gonna happen, yeah?"

Elanor played dumb and nodded her head in fear.

One of the large men turned his sights on Marvin, who sat solemn with the knowledge of what was about to happen. He awaited as the 6'5 man lumbered over. He grabbed Marvin by the shoulder and with a nod of his head toward the entrance door, indicated where the two were about to go. Marvin knew well that if he followed his request, it would be the last request he would ever follow. Marvin still had his hands in his hoodie's pockets, and intentionally resisted the larger man's request. Things were not going quickly as the apparent leader of the group would have liked,

"Rip, the hell is taking ya so long, ya fat tub o' lard?" the leader asked,
"Hey, I'm goin' hea, alright? Bastard ain't trynna make this easy on 'imself."

Rip began to fluster, his hand tightened around Marvin's shoulder; and soon as Rip's second hand sought to join the party, Marvin injected the butter knife directly into his palm. It was an unusual feat, Marvin had only hoped to graze him with it and cause enough pain to make him think twice, not send him collapsing to the floor screaming in agony. He felt a sudden rush of strength and energy that was not entirely foreign to him before. The other five men turned to view the sight; the strongest of them, Rip, writhed on the ground, defeated by a man nearly a foot shorter than he was.

Ever advantageous, Elanor rose the double barrel shotgun to the back of the anonymous leader.

"You all get the hell out of here, 'fore I make sure you won't be getin' along anywhere else ever again." amidst shock and confusion, they heeded orders. No sooner had they arrived were they repelled by a man hardly larger than a twig and a widower with bad lungs.

"What the fuck?" Marvin marveled, "what the hell was that?"
"I have no clue, honey. What I do know is you need to get out of here before they come lookin' for you." Elanor remained strangely calm.
"Uh, yeah, right, right! Uh, shit. Uh, well, what are you gonna do about him?"
"Him?" she retrieved and lit herself a second cigarette, "Self defense after all, right? I'm a little old lady. Some big scary men tried to rob me, adrenaline" she expelled a rough cough, it sounded like grinding sandpaper against stone, "an' I stabbed him with a damn butter knife." Elanor chained a last series of gaudy coughs together before he gathered herself and spoke again.
"Get up and get out of here, honey. I've got this." the widow smiled,

Marvin heeded her advice and exited the diner for what would be the last time. There was something strange happening to his body: he felt stronger, faster, more agile, than ever before--but this feeling was unnatural, what he was beginning to feel couldn't be gained by regular martial arts training. There was something powerful at work, and he was going to find out what. He headed back to Uncle Red's gym to scavenge what answers he could.