“We're guys. I punched him, he hit me back, and then everything was fine. We went out for ice cream after.”

“I punched him 14 times in the face, and he didn’t even try to hit me back. He wasn’t a pacifist, but he was already as dead as a slab of meat.”

“When he sees me, he stops.His eyes widen, his face pales.And then before i can say anything, he's holding me.And the worst part is-I want to hold him.But I also want to slap him, hit him. Punch him. Tear out his throat.I want him to tell me what he did to me was a mistake. Some horrible mix-up. . .after I'm done holding him back.”

“Want some ice cream?"His head bumped the frame. "Ouch! What?" His voice was back to normal. He turned around. "Don't offer me ice cream. I just broke into your room and threatened you.”

“If someone breaks your heart just punch them in the face. Seriously. Punch them in the face and go get some ice cream.”

“The boxers were banging away at each other. Go on, go on, go on, keep punching, Antonio, keep punching. I'm blasting away at the Cuban guy. He can't hurt me. I'm made of iron. His fists feel like friendly pats when he manages to land a punch, which he doesn't do too often, 'cause I'm fast on my feet, and I duck and weave. Jack be nimble, Jack be quick. But I'm punching the hell out of him. I'm creaming the bastard, creaming the Cuban, creaming my old man... What?!... Creaming my boss,I mean. That son-of-a-bitch Mr. Hanson. For an instant he saw Janey at the receiving end of his fists. Again. He pushed the image from his mind. It was Mr. Hanson. It was the Cuban champion. And the crowd was cheering. They were on their feet and screaming. They love me. Yes, they love me. Yes they do. They really do.”