You are about to leave. Suddenly you feel a surge of anger and frustration so powerful that you feel it very nearly renders you unconscious. When you open your eyes you see Travis Faunk in a new light. Your body feels different. Newer. You inhale sharply through your nostrils and feel the the weight of combined hours of jeers, torment, and yes, torture. The memory of a basketball smashing into your face. Rage flows through you like liquid. It makes you giddy, light-headed. You have the feeling that you have never had control of your own behavior before this moment. You look at your right hand. You line the fingers up into a blade, harden the muscles.
Travis Faunk takes a step towards you, right shoulder dropping in just the way you've seen it do a hundred times before, telegraphing the punch he'll throw at your face. It's all so obviously set in motion that you're mildly surprised that you weren't able to avoid it in the past. This time, you avoid it easily, smoothly stepping to the right so that the fist passes harmlessly by your head.
You pull your own right hand to your hip and savagely thrust it into Travis Faunk's belly. You grab a fistful of viscera and tug it out. You scrutinize the glistening clump of bloody intestine for a moment before grinning at Travis. His face is pale his mouth in a slack disbelieving O.
"Look at the two of us chumps," you say. "All this time we both thought you were scary, an' meanwhile there ain't nothin' in here but a bunch of greasy ropes!"