From two wholesome stories to one moment of roid rage and a separate incident of white privilege douchebaggery. I sat with these tales for a bit just to see if either asshole would come back to the bar in the intervening weeks, but luckily, they stayed home. Up first, a new muscle hamster.

You ever come across someone just completely dead behind the eyes? No thoughts of the universe, contemplations of cosmic energy, fond memories of bygone youth. No sense of wonder, or confusion, or intrigue. No worry, or sadness, or joy. Nothing that screams out in the tiniest way that there’s a human being in front of you. Just a mindless husk of a thing, staring at you, making you doubt if you’re awake or dreaming in a Matrix-like simulation.

I don’t think he was on drugs. Or under the influence. I’m not sure he could be influenced. If you’re not aware of your surroundings, how can you be sure you exist?

Man, fuck that kid. That’s too much introspection to waste on a guy who got his ass beat by one of the most tenacious fighters I’ve ever seen.

And I once saw a man split his hand open before fighting six cops and an ambulance full of EMTs.

Dead Behind the Eyes (DBE, or Debbie) was a young kid of maybe 23. He was tall and lanky, wearing a black long sleeve shirt and jeans neither of which were for the cold, only for the style. I almost didn’t let Debbie in because he was just so damn unnerving. I asked for his ID and he just stared at me, then tilted his head ever so slightly before tilting it back straight again.

Didn’t speak.

I literally had to point to his friend’s wallet for him to make the connection.

I don’t want to say that I felt dumber for having occupied the same space, because I’m not sure he was lacking in any intelligence. I offer this possibility — his body and his mind were disjointed from this plane of reality. Wherever he astral projected too, I hope his personality was having fun, because his body soon would not.

Because even though he gave me the heebie jeebies, he wasn’t the asshole.

Debbie was inside a full bar, loosely holding some mixed drink, probably a vodka Red Bull. Well, I wanted it to be a VRB because maybe the liquid cocaine concoction would spark a modicum of personality.

It did not.

Debbie got bumped before the liquid bump could take effect.

That jostle caused his cup to spill onto the woman next to him, and unleashing hell. After entering a wet tee shirt contest without her consent, the woman’s brother became so irate that he launched into Debbie, verbally and physically, until they had to be separated. What did Debbie do next?

He moved down to the landing area by the door, and just stared back at O Brother, Where Art Thou, who was revving himself up for the next attack.

It took three people to restrain Ulysses, though none put any pressure on the muscle hamster. Once Ulysses locked onto Debbie, he charged down the ramp like a bull in Pamplona, with red in his eyes and hate in his heart.

To say Ulysses was roided isn’t a copout. I’ve been around the strength game for decades and there’s just no way to get this big at his age without a little extra secret stuff. Certainly not illegal by any means, but definitely unnatural.

Ulysses gained speed down the ramp, but instead of form tackling Debbie, he simply raised his right hand and mushed it into Debbie’s dumb little face, palming it like Boban Marjanovic holds Keanu Reeves’ skull in John Wick 3. Debbie does … nothing. He stands there and takes it. Until he takes flight. Ulysses grabbed his face so violently that he forced Debbie through the doorway and into the patio tables stacked for winter storage. Debbie careened off two tables and a stack of chairs while we, the bar staff, wrangled the wild boar away from a third assault.

Little Debbie dumb motherfucker just stands back up and keeps fucking looking at everyone with a, “hey what’s all this fuss about” look.

I grab him and remove him from the bar for his own safety. Better to be thrown out by me gently than bouncing off the pavement for a second time in 20 seconds.

Meanwhile, Ulysses thinks he can still get away with it and heads back inside the bar. Seeing this is not in anyone’s best interest, I put a hand on his shoulder.

Silly me. You can’t arm tackle Marshawn Lynch. I couldn’t stop this beast mode with an arm bar.

Now facing the door, his mitts on the handle, pulling it open, I wrap my right arm over his right shoulder, grab hold of my left wrist, and squat.

Combining bodyweight and my full winter gear — snow boots, long johns, hiking pants, long undershirt, work shirt, work hoodie, double layer Columbia jacket, hand warmer, thin gloves, winter gloved left hand, Carhartt neck warmer, and winter hat — I’m a formidable opponent.

One thing I lack, however, is proper leverage. My makeshift bearhug would not do it this time. Ulysses was too strong and too stout for the ol’ Vaudeville hook. That’s where the deadweight squat came into play. Let me tell you, my full winter weight of ~315 pounds was just barely enough to keep Ulysses at bay.

The tide turned as Ulysses’ friends realized he would not win the round against our staff, so they ushered him out, but also pointing out Debbie, who was just standing on the sidewalk staring back at the bar like a forlorn homeowner wondering why the birds haven’t come to the feeder yet.

I tell Travis Chorly to call the cops. Clearly this group is looking for a fight and will endanger anyone who gets in their way. After all, they’re trying to defend a woman’s honor, right?

She’s the victim here, right?

Chorly takes out the phone, but before the numbers could populate the screen, we hear, “don’t call the cops you fucking pussy!”

From the sister.

Sweet. I can now wash my hands of all of you. Get the fuck out.

Really?

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Guess who’s back?

Waiting to get into the bar.

Debbie.

I’m not a spiritual man, but even I looked up to the sky and asked, “why me?” when Debbie returned.

For a man who got absolutely wrecked into iron tables and chairs, wet wood and cold concrete, Debbie looked as crisp as when we first met. He even offered up his ID this time.

“That’s not the issue. You got into a fight. Go home.”

Now, I know he didn’t actually fight anyone, but his absentmindedness caused a chain reaction so great it turned this blog into a two-parter.

“Do you want to see my ID?”

Maybe the blows to his face and body knocked something loose, because these were the first words I heard him speak. Still, not great words. His two friends then came outside and attempted to get him back inside. Not a great attempt, they just looked at me, I shook my head, and they turned to Debbie and offered him a warm up session in the car.

Debbie took the offer.

For 15 minutes.

He returned, blank as before, waiting outside the gate with his hands in his armpits Mary Katherine Gallagher-style, albeit without the sniffing. He said nothing this time. Just stood outside, in the cold, looking on, waiting for his soul to return from the astral plane to take him home or freeze to death like Jack Nicholson at the end of The Shining.