A Confrontation
Peter, my neighbour's toddler, stumbled into my room like a drunkard. He stopped midway, turned around, faced me, and looked me dead in the eyes. Then, mustering courage he hurled the vilest insult from his vocabulary, a loud shush. Insulted, I dropped my pen and scowled at him, my left eye occasionally twitching. Unperturbed, he stared right back and smirked. This was the last straw.
Like a wrathful Poseidon rising from the depths of the ocean, I arose from my bed, with a single goal in mind, to teach this puny mortal a lesson. Meanwhile, Peter waited patiently and yawned. Infuriated with the disrespect, I marched and stood in front of him. I attempted to intimidate him with my sheer height, but this warrior whose head barely reached my knee stood his ground defiantly. Seeing his puny form, I was overcome with pity and gave him a chance to abandon the fight, but this challenger wasn't here to talk, or perhaps he couldn't. Thus, after the staredown, the battle began.
Gathering all of his strength, he pushed my legs. My knees wobbled and I stumbled back. I looked at him with disbelief. He grinned. I advanced again, this time ready to obliterate him but he pushed back. His force sent me crashing onto the bed. Peter looked amused, and let out a small chuckle. He then walked towards me, one unsteady foot at a time. He was prepared to finish me once and for all. But I wasn't ready for defeat yet.
He struck again, but this time I resisted. He was bewildered by my reaction. He stopped and looked at his tiny hands, trying to fathom their betrayal. Sensing his confusion I pushed him back. He resisted but his strength faltered. I looked down at him with a smug smile. In response, he retreated and disappeared, with a grin still plastered onto his face. He looked like he had something up his sleeve. A move that he hadn't used yet, a trump card.
A few seconds later he reappeared, but this time he was seated in my father's arms. My challenger had got a backup, against whom I was powerless, and he knew it. He gestured for my father to hit me, and my dad complied. My father patted me on my shoulders with mock anger and I recoiled with pain. Meanwhile, a sadistic Peter sat on his throne and enjoyed the punishment. After the beating, my father asked Peter if His Highness was happy with his service. The toddler signalled, 'No' by vigorously shaking his head, and then asked for more. Hence the mock thrashing continued.
Peter was enjoying himself to the fullest until my father placed him on the ground. He kicked and squirmed in protest, but in vain. He was a defenceless, dethroned king who was now facing a subject he previously tortured. Thus sensing terrible retribution he dashed for my father. I pursued, determined to avenge my humiliation. Alas! I was too late. Crafty Peter had taken refuge between my father's legs.