You know, not five minutes before I got into another fight at the bar, I was at the bar rail, muttering to myself that I shouldn’t get into another fight.

I don’t enjoy fighting. It’s not terribly fun. For one, you’re getting hit by a stranger.

My brother is a black belt, I get hit enough from my own family.

But a stranger. Ew.

What caused my self-utterance wasn’t the person who ended up striking me at all. It was a group of Marlbros from Indiana and Illinois who drove up here because it’s cheaper. Most of them were straight dad bods. Well, not exactly. Most looked like they were in their third trimester. One had to be pushing 350, and most weren’t too far behind. They were the ‘85 Bears… fans from SNL.

Not the group you want to fight. Were they a threat? No. The beer was flowing. The shots were dropping, but they couldn’t control two of the smaller cubs with them. They kept floating around, maskless, to the tables in the middle portion of the bar. Over 12 feet away.

Rules, ya know.

So, after my second time corralling them into their table pen, I went up to the bar rail for some water. I had just got done screaming at a group outside for five full minutes. We’ll get to that in some other story.

Exhausted, semi-defeated, I needed refreshing. A pick-me-up.

Or, a pick-them-up.

I never got my water. Before I could flag anyone down behind the bar, I noticed a few things out of place.

Max headcount per table is six for anything inside. Doable. Should be. First grade stuff. Preschool even. Disregarding family events or outings, the most people I’ve gone out with at one time was nine or 10 people. To a bowling alley, and we all drove separately.

But no, we’ve got people coming in clown cars spilling out by the dozen. Or coming over the ridge like the Ride of the Rohirrim. Children of the corn. Thanos’ forces swarming the battlefield, except Black Panther ain’t walking through a magic portal soon, and none of them want to give up

I do a quick count and sure enough, the two bros we sat at the very end of the bar are walking around table hopping to the nearest girl club. I came to find out they were actual brothers. Huh, so bros before hos does not always apply.

I send Tim Tebrow back to his chair from one table, but he opts for the bathroom instead. Fine, I think to myself. I’m not following him in there.

I spot Brosef Stallin’ at another table, upping the count to seven. One extra woman scurries back to her seat while Brosef isn’t having any of me. He’s practically army crawling over half the table, trying, and failing, to get a girl’s number.

“Hey!” I demand attention. “Time to go back to your seat.”

“Chill, bro, I’m trying to get her number!”

“If she wants to give you her number, she can walk to your seat at the bar, with a mask on, and give out her number.” He gets off the table but is still standing by, pleading.

“Bro, I bought her shots.”

“Shots aren’t consent, dude. Get back to your seat.”

He walks back to his seat but stops halfway.

Crap.

“Why can’t you give me a fucking break, dude?”

We’re flat-footed now. He’s not big. Smaller than the cubs from the Marlbros. Five-foot-six, maybe 145 pounds in a rainstorm. Wiry. Wily. Construction type, muscle and sinew, no fat, early riser and night owl. Steel toe boots, with the wear and tear to prove it.

Already lacks situational awareness, defiance of authority — or whatever amount of it I possess — and a devil-may-care attitude.

I point to the seat. He moves a step closer.

“Give me a fucking break, dude.”

I point to the seat.

“Or.”

I point to the door.

He moves a step closer.

“Shit.”

My first mistake was picking him up from the front, bear hug style. The preferred method it to grab someone from the right side, as 85-90% of people are right-handed. Without their dominant hand, the odds of a crashing blow is diminished.

But he was so small, and we were facing each other. Plus, he was all up in my business. I picked him up like you hold a paper bag of groceries. Up and off to the side, one hand free to dig keys from your pocket,

Three steps for me and we’re now halfway through the bar. That’s when my positioning falters. Sure, his right hand was wedged between my left arm and his right ribcage, but this is a guy who works with his hands. A job where both work in tandem to achieve whatever goal he’s on site to complete.

I see a left hand approach my face and am powerless to do anything about it. My right arm is pumping through the air, building bodily momentum with each heavy swing. Sure, he’s 140 pounds, but it’s moving against you, wriggling with every breath.

He’s in a bar fight. I’m in catch and carry mode.

I don’t react fast enough. My arm doesn’t meet his, and now he has a fist full of mask. Thankfully, my masks are attached by bungee cord and ultra-thick fabric. Not only does it not tear away from my face, it doesn’t fall off my neck.

Too much time thinking of the past, not of the future.

In my moment of mask relief, Brosef sees another window of opportunity and strikes my right jaw.

A glancing blow, but enough to lock my jaw up.

That millisecond of worry about my jaw pauses the rest of my body. I realize I need to reset my mouth before my body can continue moving.

But I was already moving, or at least the ground was approaching faster than gravity makes it.

Snapping out of lockjaw before I fell face first into the barroom floor, I land on Brosef. In full bouncer garb, not only do my boots make me 6-10, but my layers of long johns (or Jon’s johns, as MoHawk called them), undershirts, pants, work shirt and hoodie push me just past 300 pounds. Timber indeed.

Like I said, I was only three steps into the walk. There was another half of the bar to travel, plus a push past the outside gate.

Get up, get up, it’s time to get up.

All leverage is lost. No more surprises. No dictation of terms. Just one-on-one. Brute strength versus wrath. Primal scream versus that poor bastard who was not staying in the bar any longer.

Three grunts I’m not proud of escaped and Brosef was sent careening out the door. His boots held up well and stopped the first two big pushes, extra effort expelled. But I’m not letting those steel toes get anywhere near me.

An hour earlier, our two bros were given a chance to sit inside. They were waiting with a group they met in line. Both wore just a tee shirt and jeans. Brosef had a tan hat, while Tebrow was a little taller and stockier. Still cold, with nothing to block the elemental forces of nature.

Sitting on the patio, I walk over and tell them two spots are open at the bar (the opposite end of where I sat them when the story kicked off).

“No, we can’t do that to the guys,” Tebrow said as he looked at Brosef.

Again, they met each other in line. They were not friends, though they did all agree that both parties could sit with each other when the next table for six opened up.

I offered once more.

“It’s now or you’re out here waiting, and I’m going to give the spots to someone else.”

“No thanks, we’ll wait.”

A self-fulfilling prophecy of idiocy.

After I let Peanut know the situation, I took a breath to decompress. Yes, Brosef, and now Tebrow, were “fronting” outside the gate, still think they were in a bar fight they already lost. I was tired, wired, and it was last call.

Like hell is someone going to order a vodka cranberry before I get my goddamned water.

Cheering.

That’s what I got from the Marlbros. And a beer.

Turns out, I gave the big city boys quite the show.

Lights on and people heading off into the night, I also got two fist bumps, two handshakes, and one coy wave from the table of five women Brosef was chatting up.

Clearly he was going to get their numbers and my involvement destroyed not-too-distant wedding bells.

Que sera, sera, idiots.