How to Get Angry
The right way to lose your temper. When it comes to disciplining a kid who's more beast than boy, violence is the only answer.
I stood up from my seat and loomed over Stefan, the little shit who'd been messing with me from behind.
"Kung fu's pretty good, huh~?"
The moment I rose, his face hardened as he glared at me. He got the message right away—this was an invitation to fight.
"M-..."
Before that filthy mouth could spit out whatever trash he had queued up, I slammed my clenched fist straight into his face.
Crack!
"!!!""
He didn't even have time to scream. I grabbed the back of his head and drove a knee into him. As if this punk kid could block it.
Crunch!
"Kyahaaah!!!"
"You bowling-pin-looking little shit... think you can just take it because I'm holding back."
Even though it was just a kid's body, I could feel his fragile nose shatter completely under my knuckles. That nose would sting every time it rained, reminding him of this day for the rest of his life.
Only now did the teacher come rushing over in a panic. I dodged her easily and fired a left high kick at Stefan.
Smack!
"Gaaahhh!!!"
A boy's scream—not a cry, but a desperate howl for survival against pain he'd never known. His kid body kept him from passing out.
I raised my left elbow for a strike, but the teacher freaked and reached for me. I slipped back lightly, stepped on a chair, and hopped onto a desk.
Then I launched a soccer kick at the hand clutching his face.
Crunch!
"Kyaaahh!"
This time, it was the girls shrieking, the other kids scrambling away in horror. The teacher lunged again; I jumped aside effortlessly. Mid-leap, I toed the boy's skull with the tip of my shoe.
Thud.
"Grrraaah!"
Guess he finally grasped the meaning of Eastern kung fu—death itself. She wouldn't let me grab him, so the teacher threw her body in the way to save the brat.
"S-stop it!!!"
"You told me to handle it like a man. Huh?!"
"Stop!!!"
All the stress from the day melted away like that. I looked down at the teacher shielding the boy.
"Hoo..."
She finally noticed me calming my heaving body.
"Y-you... what the hell..."
"You said to solve it like a man."
"......"
"Didn't know this school was cool with acting on impulse like that."
The teacher was speechless. She rushed the sobbing boy to the nurse's office. I stood there watching, then shrugged and scanned the kids.
"Where's the punk who wanted to see some kung fu?"
The brats all dropped their eyes. I hopped off the desk and slapped a hand on the head of one kid who'd cursed me out earlier.
I tilted his head 90 degrees to force eye contact. The boy who'd kicked my chair wouldn't even meet my gaze.
"Eung?"
He trembled violently under my stare and pissed himself.
"How's Eastern kung fu? Pretty cool, right?"
"U-uh... y-yeah."
"Good to hear you think it's cool."
I checked the next one, scared him straight, then headed back to my seat. These little shits had no idea how scary the world could be...
Only after the two who'd tormented me pissed themselves did I sit down quietly. Lunchtime hit, and I demolished the lunch Grandma packed. It brimmed with her love, no thought to nutrition. Meat, sausages, eggs galore, just three broccoli florets. Mashed potatoes barely two spoonfuls. Carbs and veggies in perfect, artistic proportion.
Not healthy for a normal kid, but my genetically superior pancreas could handle donuts 365 days a year. Still, I like veggies—gotta ask for more. Kid-friendly, fall-off-the-bone meat. Grandma's rule: no spicy stuff. Those juiceless meatballs were like sponges; without the tomato soup, they'd be inedible, sucking the moisture right out of me.
Day one of school, and I had Dad come pick me up. Legendary son material, even by my own standards. How many kids drag their old man into this?
Stefan's face was wrecked, so Dad—who'd rushed in to chew me out—lost it. But then the two teachers from first and second period stepped up. They'd seen the racism and bullying I'd endured.
Dad couldn't control his rage; shit hit the fan. I'd thought him refined, but nope. Now I knew where I got my temper.
He was smashing everything in the office. Not figuratively—computers first. I worried the cops might show.
I hopped up and hugged him. That snapped him back to sanity.
Dad called Grandpa right away. First time I'd seen him yell like that at the old man—maybe because it involved his son. He ripped into them for sticking me in an all-white hellhole.
Grandpa, retired and homebound, showed up in full uniform. He'd planned my enrollment, sure. But sensing Dad's fury, he played along, feigning real outrage. I hugged him too.
The boy's nasal bone was obliterated. Cheekbone cracked too. Suspension loomed, but California had anti-bullying laws. The "handle it like a man" teacher got canned on the spot.
Two hours of bullying footage proved perfect self-defense. Zero issues.
On the drive home, Dad murmured while steering.
"Becker men break noses. Good job."
"Damn right."
The affirmation from the back seat threw me.
"Our Leon's gonna be huge."
"That footage was no joke."
"Looked like he fought better than you?"
"Leon. You gotta be a soldier."
"Sure~"
My goal's WFC. But it wasn't big yet. I'd say soldier for now, pivot to WFC later. Blurting "I'm doing MMA" here? Even 40-year-old me couldn't handle the fallout.
Our men praised me, but Big Aunt looked disappointed. Even Grandma had that "yep, figures" face. First impressions sucked, but time would fix it. I hustled with chores to earn my keep.
Next day at school: no more pests. Kids are short—even "big" ones barely reach my eye level. I'd shattered the "Asians are small" myth plenty in America.
I sat quietly in class, studying Korean words for the first time in ages. Lived in the States so long, I spoke it fluently but couldn't read.
After school, Dad's car to the boxing gym. Pre-regression, Morales Whittaker—past boxing legend, my sponsor—launched me into WFC. Undisputed champ once, but shitty teacher; gym tanked. Probably dying now. Later, he'd scout for WFC, spot me, become my patron.
He barely knew MMA, but his instincts were killer. His gut calls saved me in crises. And now? He was young enough to teach me his prime boxing tech.
He always wished he'd trained me younger. His name drew crowds; gym was packed. Dad and I signed up.
WFC champ's not my limit. No slacking on conditioning.
No racism at school anymore. Beatings work wonders on undeveloped personalities.
Two years flew by. Korea vacations playing with Harin; back to States for school. I became the straight-A, kind, leader-type kid. Hogged Big Aunt and Grandma's love.
Whittaker pushed Dad: "Make him box!" Dad said soldier material, train just enough not to sap stamina. Whittaker's nuts too—said he'd convince me, then drilled me brutal.
Dad earned black belt as planned. Short time for that rank, but ex-military, he dominated tourneys.
Off to Korea again with Dad. First sight: 4-year-old Harin.
Daily playtime paid off—she remembered me.
"Oppa!!!"
"Harin!!"
Chased her around all day again.
"Beomho's great with the little ones for a reason~"
"Yeah?"
"The kids adore our boy."
Mom smiled at Dad's words.