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"Sometimes I think about punching people in the face, but I just can't do it!"
Butch looked over. "Huh. You, of all people?"
Tink shrugged. "It's kind of a fantasy of mine… but a gurl's gotta have an image!"
Butch was intrigued. "Spit it out."
"Well, I think it all started when a brat on Instagram called me an 'unc'…"
Butch looked a little lost on that one.
"Then it was that annoying gaggle of kids in the line at Starbucks… and then it was that stupid publisher who turned down my idea for a novel!"
Butch's smile was wry. "I'm no namby-pamby philosopher, but I think they might say something gay like 'it's bad to repress your violent urges' or whatever. You should get it out."
"With who?"
Butch pointed to his face. "Hit me. I wanna judge your strength. Then we can do training montages where you climb up a museum's steps."
Tink scoffed. "I already work out every day! I don't need to spoof that uggo Stallone with a figure like this."
"Well, let me be the judge of your strength anyway."
Tink sighed. "Ugh, fine."
And then he wound up and punched his brother in the face.
Tink's punch had a bit of force behind it, but it was kind of like being punched by a child. Actually, that's a bit of an underestimation. The one child Butch knew once asked to practice wrestling moves on him, but Butch felt nothing and he was pretty sure the kid threw something out from just trying.
Butch rubbed his stinging face. "Yeah, you need that training montage. Come on, I'll be your Mickey. It'll be great."
Tink crossed his arms and looked away, a smile forming. "Just as long as you don't go the route of Rocky III."