Howard doesn't want to lay down his knife or his lunchbox and sack of fruits. The knife is, to him, nearly inseparable from his hand. Parting with it feels almost as if stripping himself naked. So he just folds it, and holds it up between his palm and forefinger to show it's closed, and slings the sack and lunchbox down to the ground.

The blackberries and tomatoes have seeped and leaked through the fabric to stain it as if he's carrying a bleeding little body around. He figures that probably doesn't look very good either.

"It's me. I'm not looking for a fight." He twists his mouth to the side in an ugly smirk, one that has to work around all the extensive bloody damage to his face. "You could take me anyway, Big Guy."