I grab your face and pull you even closer.* Playin?! There was nothing playing… no playing you fuck. As I drunkenly sway over to you, you think of your family… Will they mourn you, or will they try and forget this blotch of stupidity, that their child insulted the Jory publicly, ever happened to their family? Your thoughts are cut short as I now stand face to face with you. You know that song about the boots that were made for walking? Yeah, it’s like that only instead of boots it’s my muscles and instead of walking it’s punching. But the main thing you notice is the gun tucked into my jeans, and my massive muscle arms that look like they were made for punching. My hair is unkempt, I haven’t shaved in what looks like months, there are dark heavy bags under my eyes, my shirt is stained and has holes in it, and I’m missing a shoe. what did you say?! *I slowly rise from my stool and being to lumber over to you. Your fate was sealed the moment you opened your mouth.* Mother fuck.
But there’s not, there’s not, there’s not. You look to the exit, there’s still time. A quick look at me reveals I’m still at the bar. They almost say something, but shake their head and cast their eyes down to the floor, and leave. One person looks back at you, a look of sorrow on their face. His eyes are closed and he’s muttering something to himself. The bartender idly washes a mug with a cloth. Everyone else in the bar is pretending to not notice what is going on. A bead of sweat rolls down your face as you realize you might have just fucked up in a very major way. I repeat the question, this time louder.* Come again?! *You can hear me slur the words, the sentence sounds like a real struggle for me to get out. One hand limply holding an almost empty bottle, the other hand cradling my head. I remain slumped over the bar, not looking back to you. No one dares to make a sound, as you have just said a very poor choice of words at a very dangerous time.