Am I done yet?

So I go out, and half the bar is mixing it up.

A-hole’s friend has a bottle that Bouve disarms and throws down an alley. Then Bouve looks over his shoulder, and sees L go down under a pile of Vietnamese. So he sprints across the street, and dives into the pile himself.

Shit shit shit.

I get over there, and really have no clue what to do. My lifetime record of fighting is 1, 1, and 20. There are about 8 guys, piled on top of my bro, and his bro. Fuggit. I reach down, grab one of the guys, and lift him off the pile. My kid weighs more than he does, and he’s only 10. The guy I pull off the pile gets ready to punch me, and I get ready to be punched. Then, like the voice of a friendly god, I hear six magical words from behind my victim/assailant.

Dude. Not him. That’s the cop.

I look into his eyes, nod, and the guy just kinda melts away into the crowd. Wow. Before this magic can end, I start throwing Viets around like dwarfs in a Melbourne bar. Bouve is only about two layers deep, and we both uncover L.

Who has become the Filipino jackhammer. On this one guys head. The guy who touched his princess. I watched him piston at least 7 shots straight down on him, and the guys only cushion was pavement and broken glass. That, and the puddle of his own blood that was gathering quite spectacularly.

Bouve somehow grabs him, tells him he may have gotten the best of him, and it is time to go. So we recross the street, and head to the bar. My initial instinct was into my car, out of town, then out of state. But there is nit of a problem. The unconscious guy is about 3 feet from my bumper. So we go, but not before we see A-hole’s buddy from before, the one with with the bottle, just start kicking the guy in the stomach. God only knows why.

We hide in the back of the bar, high fiving each other, laughing, and do a head count. Eventually, and I really mean eventually, about 25 minutes later, the street is awash in carnival red and blue lights. Most of us pile into the party in the back room, start whistling a jaunty tune, and examining the drapes and neon beer wall art. The cops come in, ask the owner what happened, and he asks what happened to whom? I love Omerta.

The cops tell everyone to clear the street, but Ahole’s buddy is clearly an idiot. He tries to leave the bar no less than four times; past three of Providence’s finest. They finally get sick of his crap, and get ready to throw a Rodney King on his ass. Until one notices the blood on his shoes. You know, the blood the Filipino Jackhammer left in the street. He goes into the back of cruiser, and realizes he does not have the friends he thought he had, so he rats out Jackhammer in a heartbeat. Who we have cleaned up to the best of our abilities. The real cops take Jackhammer outside, and into another cruiser.

Now is my time to shine. I’m pretty sure I am the soberest natural born citizen in the building, so I start talking to the head cop. I ask if L is being brought in for public drunkenness. They say no, assault. I ask them "On whom? That guy the Ahole's buddy beat up? Come on, look at him, he’s gotta be 60 years old, he’s drunk off his ass, and he weighs about 110. WE call him the Filipino Houseboy for god's sake. I don’t even think he was out there." I play him like a trout, with little or no open concern for L, but, five minutes later, L is back in the bar. Buying drinks for us now.

Word on the street is the punching bag spent a week in the hospital, and the Ahole’s buddy did three months without bail. Dumbass.