The robbery

      He was pretty young, younger than Rocco at least, and had a clear uncertainty that Rocco could see clean through.
      "I saaaaaid, put the money in the bag!"
      "Did I stutter? No."
      "Alright, that's it Old Man! I--"
      And as the young, uncertain man brought the gun up to the counter, he accidentally pushed the button to let out his ammo. The cartridge plopped on the counter and slid within Rocco's reach. He quickly snatched it and held it up. 'Gotchya!' was all his face read.
      "Hey man! Give it back!" The robber pleaded, angry.
      "Ehh, I'll think about it," Rocco nonchalantly said, inspecting the dirt under his fingernails.
      "If you don't give it back, I swear, I'll-I'll kill you!"
      "And if I did give it back to you, you'd still kill me! So I think I'll just keep it. When I tell my wife about this sissy attempted hold-up thing, she'll want proof. Tell me son, you have a wife?"
      "No sir," answered the robber, then quickly realized what he was saying and said,"I mean, give it back man! I'll punch you in your throat!"
      "No wife? Girlfriend maybe?"
      "That's beyond the point."
      "You know what, I'll bet she's a blonde. Her name. . . Marie?" Rocco was having fun now.
      "Stacy. Wait! Just come over here and I'll show you how a real man fights."
      Rocco paused, giving it some thought. If the cops asked, it was just self defense. He sighed and jumped over the counter. "Alright, let's keep it clean: no low blows, rabbit punches, spitting, kicking, and don't go all Mike Tyson on me and bite my ear off or nothing."
      "You think I don't know how to fight? You're gonna learn a lesson, Old--" He was cut off by Rocco's fist suddenly slammed in his left cheek. "Hey man! I wasn't ready!"
      Oh, I'm so sorry," Rocco said sarcastically, "Now straighten up. It's your stance. Put your feet out wider. No, not that wide. There. About shoulder length. Now bring your fists up like this. Good. Now, turn your fist out like this when you punch. No, straight out. There you go, Buddy."
      "Don't call me Buddy, Old--" Another blow, now hard on his cheek bone.
      "Oh, and another thing: always be alert. You never know what somebody else is thinking. Now, let's get this thing over with so I can go home."
      "Wait. What are the stakes?"
      "Stakes?"
      "Yeah."
      "Okay, if you win, which I highly doubt, I'll give you the ammo and you can do whatever you want, except at at my place for dinner which was served about--" he looked at his watch "--15 minutes ago. If I win, I keep the ammo, and I keep your pride."
      "Sounds good."
      "So like, how do you want to start this thing?"
      "How about 1-2-3?"
      "Okay so. . . 1-2-3!"
      And boom. The young robber was on the floor with a bloody nose. He cradled his face and cried, "Duuude!" He spit out a tooth.
      Rocco began to laugh. "I won," he whispered to the man. He continued his wheezy laughing fit until he reached the door. He flipped the light switch off. "Take it easy, Buddy. Tell Stacy I said hi." Rocco tossed the cartridge into the air and caught it with one hand. He whistled an old Frank Sinatra tune all the way home: "That's life"