‘Now,’ Griff began in a tone that suggested what little patience he had had was long since used up, ‘let’s hear the right answer, or you’re gonna get’ - his free hand made a fist - ‘a knuckle brioche!'
Marty landed on his feet and shoved Griff back. Marty’s hands automatically closed into fists as well.
Griff and the gang all took a step back.
‘Well, well, well,’ Griff murmured as his smirk returned. ‘Since when did you become’- he paused to glance knowingly at his gang members - ‘the physical type?’
Marty looked down at his clenched fist. He had to watch it. He wasn’t acting like his son. Junior, would act. Doc Brown was right - this changing the future business was tricky. If Griff and the others got suspicious, it might spoil everything.
He opened his hand and raised it in a gesture of peace. But his voice was still firm as he spoke;
‘Look. Griff, the answer's no.’
‘No?’ Griff asked, the single syllable somehow slow and menacing.
‘N-O,’ Marty spelled it out.
He turned and walked for the door.
'What’s wrong, McFly?’ Griff called after him. ‘Chicken?’
Marty stopped, three feet short of the door. It had gotten awfully hot in here all of a sudden. He could feel his two hands wanting to make fists all over again, and this time, he knew those fists were serious!
Nobody, but nobody, called Marty McFly chicken.
‘I told you he's got no scroat!’ the girl crowed.
The other guy, the one wearing the computers, grabbed Marty’s cap and pulled it off. He waved his prize for the others to admire.
Marty turned around to look at the gang. He had to control himself.
Griff’s smirk bloomed into an evil smile.
‘Chicken, McFly!’
Griff and his cohorts made clucking noises.
That was it. Future or no future, Marty didn’t take that from anybody!
‘Nobody calls me chicken!’
He rushed Griff.
The bigger kid grabbed something from his belt with his right hand and put it behind his back. Whatever it was, it didn’t look very big. Still, Marty told himself to be careful.
Griff swung his right hand forward - only now it held a baseball bat! Marty had no time to wonder where the bat had come from. He barely had time to duck Marty's foot snaked out, catching the bigger guy around the ankle. Griff’s foot went out from under him.
That, and the still-swinging bat, were his undoing.
Griff yelled and plummeted to the floor.
The rest of the gang stood, all in a line, and stared at Marty in shock.
Griff grunted as he got back to his feet. His face was flushed, a reddish-purple mask of hatred. Somehow, he looked even taller than he had before.
‘All right, punk,’ he said through his teeth, ‘you’ve been looking for -’
Uh-oh. Marty knew this was the end, unless he could come up with something - anything. But what?