Fight with a Bear

It was early Thursday morning. 2:20am to be more specific. I slid out of an office building, the bowels of which holds a faux-English pub - The Rose and Thistle. My compatriots were addled by strong drink, but my thoughts were clear. I was prepared to drive the enclave to whatever late night purveyor of beef would house our loosened bodies for the duration of an unnecessary meal.

A crying girl retreated across the parking lot. Her sharp moans of "oh God" left a trail to the skinny pup left behind to exercise his chivalry upon some drunken lout. The drunk staggered and swayed like a leather-clad kite. His pronated brow and inability to focus sent the all-to-clear message that this gentleman did not venture out to this particular parking lot just to talk. My drunken revellers were lost in sublimnity, but I percieved the charge thickening the air. The time for words was swiftly ending and soon the slender boy would be conversing in only global language extant: the language of beasts. My mind's iPod sung the songs of thumps and scuffles. A tune whose sole purpose is to arouse the adrenaline, stiffen the sinews, and jitter the skin.

Well something had to be done. I walked between the opposing parties and spouted something vaguely diplomatic. "No dogs here," or something along those lines. My reasoning was to neutralize these living ions with my saturate impartiality. But the drunk took flight. More like a swooping swagger actually. He loped back in the direction of the unhappy woman. By this point in time a large associate of mine had taken a supporting postion (or shall I say imposition) near a teal Pontiac. The Stage Manager, sauced and righteously commanding, threw herself into action by taking off her shoes and demanding that the "drunk asshole" go home. So much for diplomacy.

We stood in a hunting circle around the belligerent business major. A palpable waft of paranoia excreted from the man, like a razorback trapped by the Aborigines. Suddenly, the Roomate of the Drunk took his side and cooed him in the direction of their car. The web had become more complicated by this addition. The Stage Mangager, realizing that she knew the Roomate, quickly laughed off an appology and dismissed her previous fury. The Drunk would not forget, and he would had none of it. He teetered briefly, smouldering in silence. The hunting circle began to dispurse and my large associate mumbled a suggestion for the leather waste to get some sleep. "Fuck you," was the villain's all-to-familiar response. This gave my large friend pause. A new gauntlet had been thrown.

For the second time in five minutes, I stepped in between the soon-to-be combatants. "Let's go home friends," a butterfly that lived in my molars offered the rivals. "I can take off my coat," the Drunk threatened (although, upon reflection I suppose the threat lives entirely in the subtext). My large friend remained rigid, poised. I maintained my position in the probable path of the fists, this irritated the swine. He turned his baleful gaze from my stronger companion to my own person. Something in the dull, loose face of the man, the wronged eyes, arose the fury from within my soul. I felt the unspoken challenge. The masculine programming, unwittingly hardwired into the soul of every cock-carrier who walks the earth. I felt the urge to throw down.

Fortunately for my face, I was sober. The Drunk and I stared unblinkingly at each other for an octet of frosty seconds, and then I turned and walked back to my drunken group.


Mundane, but true.
M.