Chapter 3: Pranks, Fists, and Family Lines

The ceremony started, followed by the reception. The guests shuffled into the hall, the air thick with tension and the smell of cheap cologne. I could feel the anxiety buzzing in my bones.

During the ceremony, the bridesmaids and groomsmen swapped sides—bridesmaids with the groom, groomsmen with my sister. It felt forced, like everyone was just going through the motions. The smiles were brittle, the laughter hollow.

I immediately spotted buzz-cut on stage, giving me a taunting smile before turning his lecherous gaze to my sister. He winked, daring me to react. My fists curled at my sides, nails digging into my palms.

I clenched my fists, ready to rush up there. My heart pounded in my ears, adrenaline surging. I could feel the heat rising in my face, the urge to leap across the room.

The emcee quickly tried to smooth things over. “Brother-in-law, would you like to say a few words?” His voice was chipper, but his eyes darted nervously around the room. I saw his hand tremble as he held the mic.

I stopped, glared at buzz-cut, and mouthed, “Try anything and I’ll end you.” My lips barely moved, but the threat was clear. He flinched, just a little.

He grinned, jerking his head to signal I should look behind me. His confidence made my skin crawl. I felt my stomach clench in anticipation.

I turned—there was a ring of punks with yellow, red, and green hair, at least a dozen of them, whispering and grinning. They looked like they’d just come from a dive bar, tattoos peeking out from under their shirts. The smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke drifted over.

They bent over, eyes darting to the stage, wolf-whistling. Their laughter was sharp, mocking, slicing through the hum of conversation.

I let out a humorless laugh under my breath, adrenaline surging, my body trembling with anger. I wanted to tear the whole place apart. My fists ached for release.

My mom was right—nothing good comes from these backwater places. The reason these awful customs persist is because everyone here is complicit. It was like stepping into a living nightmare, one where the rules didn’t make sense. I wondered how anyone could live like this and not see the rot.

I’d seen stories online about aid workers or trafficked women trying to escape, only to be blocked not by a few people, but the whole town. The stories haunted me, suddenly feeling all too real. The faces in the crowd blurred together, a wall of indifference.

They circle the wagons for their own. Loyalty to the community, even if it meant trampling outsiders. I felt a cold anger settle in my gut.

I had a bad feeling about how today would go. My gut twisted, a warning I couldn’t ignore. Every instinct screamed that this wasn’t over.

And it wasn’t just the punks eager to see my sister humiliated. There were several old men, hair gone gray, staring at the stage with the same hungry look. Their eyes were sharp, predatory, glinting in the overhead lights.

The ceremony continued. The music played, but nobody was really listening. The notes hung in the air, ignored and lonely.

Next, the emcee brought out two props—a peach and a banana. He held them up like prizes at a carnival, waving them for all to see. I felt my jaw tighten.

“Alright, folks, now for everyone’s favorite local tradition!” His voice boomed, trying to sound cheerful. The forced excitement grated on my nerves.

“The peach means good fortune and sweetness. The banana… well, you get it—long life and plenty of laughs!” He winked, the innuendo obvious. The crowd snickered, some elbowing each other.

“Let’s have a groomsman and a bridesmaid help the bride and groom claim their happiness!” The crowd tittered, some clapping, some just watching with cold eyes. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks.

As soon as he finished, buzz-cut ran over and snatched the banana. The updo bridesmaid—the same one who tried to expose my sister—grabbed the peach, grinning. Their faces were alight with mischief, eyes gleaming with anticipation.

The emcee said, “Now, on my command, all kids turn your heads!” He laughed, but nobody moved. The tension crackled, thick and unbroken.

I had a sinking feeling. My fists clenched at my sides. I thought, Not again. Not this time.

The next second, buzz-cut rushed to my sister, holding the banana suggestively at his waist. The crowd roared with laughter, but I could see my sister’s face drain of color. Her hands shook as she backed away.

“Come on, squat down and eat it in one go—don’t bite, it’ll hurt, haha!” His words were crude, the joke unmistakable. I felt the bile rise in my throat.

My sister couldn’t believe it and slapped him across the face. The sound rang out, silencing the crowd for a split second. The hush was electric, charged with shock.

He froze, then spat, “You little bitch!” His voice was low, dangerous, his eyes flashing with rage.

He threw the banana down and lunged at her. The other groomsmen rolled up their sleeves, leering. Their faces twisted with ugly anticipation, muscles tensed for a fight.

“Bastards!”

Furious, I jumped on stage and kicked buzz-cut in the head, sending him flying. He landed hard, groaning. The crowd gasped, some scrambling back.

The others charged me, ready to fight. I braced myself, adrenaline flooding my veins. My vision narrowed, every sense heightened.

“Come on, all of you!” I shouted. “Is this what your parents taught you?!” My voice echoed, daring them to cross the line. I felt the energy in the room shift, fear mixing with anger.

Some older folks rushed up to stop me, begging me not to ruin the wedding. Their hands grabbed at my arms, their voices pleading. I barely registered the touch, my focus locked on the threat.

My sister, seething, turned and slapped my brother-in-law. Her hand left a red mark on his cheek. The imprint glowed against his skin, stark and undeniable.

“Hank, you jerk! This is your idea of a wedding?!” Her voice broke, but her anger was clear. I saw the tears in her eyes, the fury in her stance.

He clutched his face, lost. He looked around, desperate for someone to save him. I almost felt sorry for him—almost.

The updo bridesmaid was now holding the peach to her chest, waiting for my brother-in-law to take a bite. Her smile was sly, calculated. She watched him with narrowed eyes, waiting for his next move.

“Hey, kid, what are you doing on your big day?” Someone in the crowd called out, their tone mocking. The words hung in the air, sharp and mean.

My brother-in-law’s parents came up. His mom glared at me, then pointed at the bruised buzz-cut.

“You beat him up like this—how am I supposed to explain that to his parents?” Her voice was sharp, accusing. I caught the flicker of fear in her eyes.

I stared at buzz-cut. Even after two beatings, he still looked defiant, eyes full of menace. He spat on the ground, daring me to try again. I felt my fists itch.

“If he tries anything else, I won’t go easy on him.” My voice was cold, final. The words dropped like stones.

“What’s your problem? If you can’t handle it, why marry into our family?!” buzz-cut yelled, still being held back. He struggled, but nobody let him go. I saw the panic flicker in his eyes.

My sister stormed over, ready to slap him again. “I’m not marrying you, so who are you to talk? Try messing with my brother again!” Her words were sharp, her anger righteous. I felt a surge of pride.

For once, my brother-in-law spoke up—at least he sided with my sister.

“My wife’s right. She’s marrying me, so back off.” His voice was shaky, but he stood his ground. I saw his hands tremble, but he didn’t back down.

But his mom was even angrier now, dragging him aside and hissing,

“What’s wrong with you? She slapped you in front of everyone and you’re just taking it? Don’t you care what people will think?!” Her words were sharp, full of disappointment. Her lips were pressed tight, her eyes blazing.

She spoke quietly, but I heard every word. The shame in her voice was unmistakable. I felt a pang of pity for him, trapped between two worlds.

His dad came over, face dark.

“You burned the house rules, skipped the ceremony, and now got slapped in front of everyone. Are you even a man?!” His voice was low, dangerous. The threat was clear in every syllable.

I couldn’t take it anymore and strode over. My steps were heavy, deliberate, boots thudding against the floor. The anger buzzed in my ears.

The three of them thought I was coming to apologize and put on stiff smiles. Their faces were tight, forced. I saw the hope flicker and die as I got closer.

I sneered. “Maybe you shouldn’t get married. My sister’s not good enough for your family.” My words cut through the tension like a knife. I watched their faces fall.

The in-laws panicked, scrambling to explain.

“Don’t be rash, kid. My wife was just worried you’d hurt someone. If you really did, we’d have to pay up. And with all of Billy’s friends around, if they got rough, we might not be able to stop them.” Their excuses tumbled over each other, desperate to regain control. I could hear the fear in their voices.

I let out a cold laugh. The sound was bitter, echoing off the walls. It tasted like metal in my mouth.

When I was a kid, cops looked the other way and my old neighborhood was rough. Fights were common. Because I was small, I got beat up a lot. I learned early that you had to stand your ground or get trampled. I remembered the sting of knuckles, the taste of blood, the way the world went quiet just before a punch landed.

When I ran home crying, my dad would smack me and say, ‘Come back after you win. If you lose, suck it up.’ It was harsh, but it made me tough. I learned that pain was temporary, but respect lasted.

After that, no matter how badly I got beat, I never complained. Instead, I’d wait until I caught those guys alone and beat them senseless. I was ruthless, and my family had to pay out more than once. The memory made me smirk.

But my dad never scolded me—just told me not to pick on honest folks. He had his own code, and I stuck to it. That line stayed with me, echoing through every fight I ever had.

When I got older, I went to a boxing gym and learned to fight for real. After graduation, I started a security company with my buddies, handling big events and commercial security. I knew how to handle myself, and I wasn’t afraid to show it. I carried that confidence everywhere I went—a shield against the world.

Today, giving my sister away was just another day on the job. Only this time, it was personal. The stakes were higher, the risks real.

“Bro-in-law, let’s just end the ceremony here, okay? No more wedding pranks.” My voice was calm, but there was steel underneath. I let my eyes linger on his, making sure he understood.

My brother-in-law pleaded with me too. He looked desperate, eyes wide with fear. I could see his hands shake as he reached for hers, his voice barely above a whisper.

I looked at my sister—she was still furious. He rushed to comfort her. His hands shook as he reached for hers, the gesture awkward but sincere.

Everyone had an excuse to back down, so the ceremony ended. People shuffled out, whispering behind their hands. The air was thick with gossip and judgment.

But I noticed that group of punks, led by Billy, still glaring at me, their eyes full of resentment and lust when they looked at my sister. They even turned their backs to her, making disgusting gestures to provoke me. My blood boiled, but I kept my cool—for now. I could feel the tension simmering, waiting for a spark.

Veins bulging, I strode over and grabbed Billy by the collar. My grip was tight, unyielding. I could feel his pulse race under my fingers.

“Still not done? Want to play some more?” My words were a warning, a dare. I stared him down, daring him to make a move.

The other punks looked ready to jump me. Their fists clenched, jaws set. I could see the muscles in their arms tense, the anger in their eyes.

I stared them down. “Come on if you’re not afraid of broken arms and legs.” My voice was low, deadly serious. The threat was real, and they knew it.

“Fine! Bring it on!” Billy shouted, making the first move. He grabbed my arm and tried to elbow me. I dodged, let go, and kicked him hard in the gut. He doubled over, gasping for air. The sound of his breath wheezing was oddly satisfying.

The rest rushed me. I punched one in the face, then landed a straight punch on another. The sound of knuckles on bone was sharp, final. I felt the shock travel up my arm.

With a few guys down, my anger was at its peak. If they wanted a fight, I’d give them one. I’d show my sister’s in-laws that nobody could bully her. My fists spoke louder than any words. I felt the raw power in every swing.

The local relatives moved fast, pulling us apart when they saw things weren’t going their way. Their hands were rough, but I barely felt it. My focus was razor-sharp, locked on the threat.

An old man with white hair muttered, “This groom’s brother sure is violent—always fighting.” His voice was low, but I heard every word. The disdain was thick.

I’d had enough of him. He’d leered at my sister during the ceremony, and now this. My patience snapped. I felt something break inside me—a line crossed, a point of no return.

I shook off the people holding me and stood in front of the old man, eyes sharp. I could see the fear flicker in his gaze, his hands trembling at his sides.

“Old man, whose side are you on?” My voice was cold, challenging. I could see him shrink back, just a little.

He bristled. “I’m the groom’s great-uncle! How dare you be so rude!” His voice was shaky, indignant. His lips quivered as he spoke.

The groom’s great-uncle?

I slapped him across the face so hard his dentures flew out. They hit the ground with a clatter, rolling under the table. The sight was both grotesque and oddly satisfying.

People panicked. My in-laws rushed over, stunned. The room buzzed with shock, a low, electric hum. I could feel the stares burning into my back.

My brother-in-law’s dad tried to keep calm. “Kid, that’s my uncle!” His voice was strained, desperate to keep the peace. The desperation was clear in his eyes.

I brushed off my hands, unfazed. “Doesn’t matter. If you’re old but have no respect, you deserve it.” My words were sharp, final. I could feel the ripple of outrage.

“How am I disrespectful? Don’t bad-mouth me!” the old man fumed. His face was red, eyes blazing. Spittle flecked his lips.

I glared at him.

“You stared at my sister like a creep during the ceremony. That’s disrespectful. And you say I’m always fighting—are those punks your sons? Why are you defending them?” My voice was loud, cutting through the noise. I saw the shock register on his face.

“You—” he sputtered.

I kept going.

“Don’t ‘you’ me. I stood up for your grandkids, and instead of applauding, you blame me? Are those punks your sons? Say it out loud!” The room fell silent, everyone waiting for his answer. The tension was thick, a living thing.

The scene descended into chaos. But I was in the right, and I wasn’t someone they wanted to test. The tension was thick, but nobody wanted to challenge me again. I saw the fear in their eyes, the way they backed away.

My in-laws, especially my brother-in-law’s dad, were livid. Their faces were tight, lips pressed into thin lines. I could see the anger simmering beneath the surface.