“OK then!” Miles followed his mocking cry by extending his arms wide and down, opening his torso invitingly towards Butch. “Let’s finish this round.” Seeing Butch pause, Miles continued. “Tell you what — I’ll give you an advantage.” He looked down. “I won’t move my feet — if I do, you win. I also promise not to parry any of your attacks.” Miles twirled the grip of his foil in his right hand, the tip circling in the direction of Butch’s mask. “All you have to do is keep your eye on my blade.”
Annie had walked next to Bernie. He nudged her, whispered. “Butch doesn’t have a chance, does he?” Annie shook her head, her lips drawn taught.
Butch took a slow step towards Miles, who waved him forward with his left hand. “That’s it, come closer.” Another step — “closer — ” — the tip of his foil continued its teasing circle.
Bernie barely heard Annie’s terse whisper. “Never do what your opponent wants you to do.”
Another step forward from Butch, and Miles launched his attack. Instead of bringing the tip of his foil forward, as Butch had expected, Miles swung his right arm and the weapon it held up, and back, the tip now pointing behind him, and before Butch knew what was happening Miles completed his action, bringing his arm behind his head, the hand flashing forward from behind his left ear.
Annie nodded. When Miles had scored against her in the same fasion earlier that afternoon, she was too surprised and frustrated to appreciate the skill he had displayed. But this time, having anticipated his move, Annie couldn’t help but admire Miles, how his arm now seem coiled like a scorpion’s tail, as the red tip of his blade stung Butch on the shoulder.