My weary arms refused to lift themselves again and hung dangling at my sides. He seemed to be faring little better. A river of blood came from his nose, and he was swaying punch-drunk, his eyes unfocused.
Now’s the time, if ever it was, if my arms would just move.
I marched forward, my legs screaming with every step. Swinging my arms wildly, I clobbered him once more with—there’s no name for the “technique”—a flailing windmill.
He dropped, and I stood over him for a breath, making sure he was down, before I collapsed into a dreamless darkness.
Tale Told 