Congratulations Fancy Man!

You’re the fanciest man in the tri-state area, no mean feat given how fancy many of the tri-city residents are. You’ll dress in nothing but the finest velvet suits, wearing only the most gauche of giant floppy hats with feathers in them. Your reign has been uncontested so far, and will remain uncontested until today when an upstart from “the streets” tries to prove himself fancier than you.

He’ll step to you, this youngling, in nothing but a vest with a pookah shell necklace. His chest will be shaved, his jeans taut around his package, which will be ample. He’ll advance with his shoulders tilted back, like he’s going to start dancing at any second, and nod in your direction.

“Sup?”

You’ll shake your head at him.

“Not today, son,” you’ll say, tapping your cane on the ground as you turn to leave. That’s when he’ll lay his hand on your shoulder, breaking the first rule of fancy fighting: never lay hand upon thy opponent’s threads.

At this point, shit will be on.

“Shit is on now, boy,” you’ll spit at him, removing your velvet overcoat and stripping to your still quite elaborate waistcoat. He’ll respond by removing his vest and making his nipples dance.

“Bring it,” he’ll say.

Then the two of you will draw machetes and hack and one another. By the time you’re done your opponent will be bleeding on the ground, missing most of his arm. You’ll have a handful of shallow cuts on your body and your clothes, fancy as they are, will be ruined. But it will be worth it. You’ll opponent will be fallen, and you’ll remain the fanciest of fancy men, still ready to challenge any pretenders with your strong arms and quick wrists.

Congratulations Fancy Man!