• the gray grim gut-punch of Newcastle
  
• the unlucky and the morally dyslexic
• launching attacks against
• that charming smile people had come to expect
• unless you’re some kind of a rockstar

Everybody knows the move I’m about to try. It’s called the Gray Grim Gut-Punch of Newcastle, and it’s the tactic of last resort of the unlucky and the morally dyslexic, both of which categories I fit into quite neatly. They all know it, and they know I’m just that desperate, as I must be if I’m launching attacks against the Wiggins, the gang that owns these streets, and has done since the Magna Carta, ruffians and cutpurses and freelance assassins all. My desperation move is going to be totally expected, and without the element of surprise there’s just no point even trying the Gray Grim Gut-Punch of Newcastle, because it takes so long to set it up. It’s hopeless. So I flash that charming smile people had come to expect, the smile that prefaces all my attempts at talking my way out of a drubbing. And it tilts things just enough, gets the Wiggins convinced I’m hoping my hyperdeveloped vocabulary will save me and makes them stop watching the real windup. Whump! The horrendous, retching, gagging grunt that heaves out of the first one I Gut-Punch paralyzes his mates, and by the time any of them unfreeze I’ve laid out two others. Sure, the totally expected move is pointless, unless you’re some kind of a rockstar, or at least know how to smile like one.

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