Anticipating pain from the violent gesture, he blocked off the nerve endings, reinforced his stomach muscles at the expense of some bony tissue, and leaned into the blow. Transmuting the kinetic energy into assimilable light, the Sirian enjoyed the tiny tweak of power.
The big man jerked back his wrist and stared at it. "Like a rock, yet. Huh! Wipe that smirk off, Mac."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Still snotty, huh?" The big fellow slammed two lefts and two rights to the body with no more effect.
The gorgeous blonde said, "Oh stop, Tony. He's one of these whaddayacallems—masochists. He likes to get slugged. Now stop it, I tell you, or the cops will—"
But Tony was unstoppable. Infuriated, he aimed a round-house right at the Sirian's chin, and that individual, fearing for the structural inadequacies of his neck, ducked.
Tony launched himself at full length in the direction of the blue-buttocked blonde but made it only as far as her upright bottle of sun-tan lotion. He crashed to the sand with considerable force. Twisting his neck to save his nose from the sand, Tony brought his temple in deadly line with the little rigid bottle.
From the solid jam of humanity came voices. "Wow, did you see the little guy counter-punch him? Just like lightning."
"Naw, the big guy stumbled. He hit his head."
"On the bottle."