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Behind the bar, one sees a lot. You learn to recognize certain types. The first dates, nervous faces which would either turn suggestive and smiling by the end of the evening, or politely masking dissapointment. The loners, the ones that Billy Joel sung about, who were only seeking company in the sweet haze of alcohol. The couples, in various formations. A controlling hand on a shoulder, or the easy laugh of trust and love. Sometimes both. And of course, the old friends. They came in many shapes. The friend group, together since middle school and so tightly woven that they sometimes even ordered in tandem. The ones that just entered the bar seemed to be a variation on those types. Their steps were in sync and their focus was solely on each other, nothing else.
They were an odd couple. One was of average height, with a god awful haircut but an easy smile that compensated for the questionable hair choice. His big arms and heavy steps made some of the regulars look at him twice. Getting into trouble was easy when you looked that solid. The other one towered over him, easily over 6’4, with a more casual gait. Too casual, probably. He wasn’t on the small side either. A bulky build, with tattoos peeking out from the long sleeved shirt. The tall one was wearing a balaclava, covering his face except for the pale skin around his eyes. No need to be a genius to figure out that these men were trouble.
They sat down at the bar, the short one waving at the barkeep, the friendly smile still playing on his face. Was it worth the trouble of trying to kick them out now, with the mask as an excuse, or could they hope that Lady Luck was on the bar’s side tonight, and had given these lads a calm temper? The barkeep came over. Best to wait for an excuse to kick them out.
Thirty minutes later.
”Oh, for fuck’s sake!” The shorter man called out, his Scottish accent coming through in the noisy (shithole) bar. The man who had just bumped into his shoulder promptly started laughing, obviously too drunk to realize what he had just done. The barkeep sighed, and pulled out the small cellphone hidden beneath the counter. The Scotsman, who had already drunk three beers, looked at the remnants of his fourth, which had been spilled all over his pants. He turned around, and met eyes with the drunk man. The barkeep saw a tattoo of a gun peeking up from the neckline of his shirt, and sighed again, resisting the urge to cover his face with his hands.
”What the actual fuck,” the Scotsman stood up, and the barkeep started dialing 999, his finger hovering over the call button, ”is wrong with you, you bloody eejit?” His hulking friend hadn’t moved yet, to the barkeep’s enormous relief. The drunk man was a semi-regular, there with seven of friends. He was a copper, as well. If there was one thing the barkeep knew about officers, it was that they didn’t take kindly to one of their one being ganged up on by two other people. However, if it was only a man, their macho pride might make this a one on one bar fight. Cops, in general, were bloody absurd, the barkeep reflected. The semi-regular also had atleast five bar glasses on his conscience. The barkeep wouldn’t mind if he got smacked by the Scotsman. He could probably handle himself – he was too coiled to be an harmless drunk, too much control in the steps he took forward.
”Aye, did ye spill some on ya?” His poor attempt at imitating a Scottish accent was accompanied by the uproarious laughter of his mates at the table behind him, and the barkeep developed a headache. Then, the Scotsman’s friend moved, faster than a man that was four beers deep was allowed to be. The drunk man didn’t have time to react. A closed fist hit his chin, and he went out standing, sinking to the ground, only barely caught by one of his mates behind him. The barkeep hadn’t heard the tall man speak yet – the friendly Scotsman had ordered all the beer – but even as the tall man’s back was towards him, one could figure that the deep, accented voice was coming from him.
“You boys want trouble?” The drunk man was twitching on the ground, one of his friend trying to shake him awake again. A hush spread over the bar, the people sitting closest to the conflict ducking their heads down. It was clear that the Scotsman and his friend (with an obvious Manchester accent) were dangerous men. That’s why the barkeep hadn’t wanted them in the bar in the first place. They moved with deliberate steps and closed hands, positively signalling potential violence. Brightly coloured frogs in the Amazon, telling potential threats to watch the fuck out or die quietly. But the barkeep had seen more than a few bar fights in his day. There had never, in the history of the shithole bar, been a bar fight where numbers didn’t outweigh skill. Like the accomplished MMA fighter, who had taken down one man but ended up in the hospital for the glass shards in his back when some friends took a chance to smash bottles over him when he was distracted.
Yet, when the Manchester man looked back at him, dark eyes gleaming in the low bar light, the barkeep took the hint, and backed away. There was something in those eyes. They had no emotion, no twitchiness, just communicated the simple order to stay out of it. The rest of the cops were standing up, shouting various expletives and threats towards the duo with their backs against the bar. The man closest to the old friends picked up his glass.
Then it all exploded. The Scotsman made the first move, going for the man who had just picked up a glass. He headbutted him, with a hand outstretched to block the arm coming up to hit him with the glass. The other man went down, groaning in pain as the glass fell to the floor with a loud crash of broken glass. The barkeep winced and clicked the call button, silently praying that the rest of the cops in town weren’t out drinking as well.
Almost at the same time, another one of the cops rushed at the Manchester man, aiming to take him down to the floor. The barkeep was reluctantly impressed with the cop’s bar fight instincts. The Manchester man had a right hand worth noting, so he’d do best on the floor, where the rest of the men could gang up on him while he was being held down. Dirty, but smart. It didn’t go to plan – the Manchester man was faster, despite his big frame, and anticipated the takedown, dropping low and grabbed the attacking man’s neck as the cop’s hands fumbled to grab onto the large man’s legs. The cop’s adrenaline continued to drive him forward, fruitlessly trying to push the big man down but then he got a sharp elbow to his back, and all the air went out of him. He lost his grip, and the Manchester man seized the opportunity, grabbing his shoulders and violently shoving him towards the floor, where he promptly kicked the man’s stomach. The man on the floor retched, curling inwards on himself on the floor. The barkeep took another step back, now actually afraid. By the look’s of the glazed over look in the cop’s eyes, the Manchester man had kicked him in the kidney with the effiency which was normally associated with butchers.
The barkeep’s instincts screamed that the initial apprehension to the men had been a gross underestimation. The cops were drunk and high on adrenaline, not understanding the danger that they were in. Suddenly, the cellphone made the loud beeping sound which signified that it was attempting to reach the emergency line. The Scotsman tilted his head, apparently hearing it clearly even in the chaos of the fight. He held up a hand, and his friend nodded, and moved his hand towards something in his pants, as another cop rushed towards him, intent on getting revenge for his retching friend on the ground.
In a movement which the barkeep’s head didn’t really understand, the large man had shifted, redirecting the momentum of the man who was trying to tackle him so that he almost fell to the floor. At the last second, the Manchester man grabbed his collar, dragging him up to a standing position before him. A glimmer of metal appeared in the masked man’s hand, and the barkeep gasped. The knife went towards the cop’s throat, the barkeep froze, but just before a spray of blood would decorate the stained floors, the knife stopped.
”We’re gonna walk out of here, lads,” the masked man’s voice was quiet and tired, unperturbed by the violent confrontation he had just been through. ”Alright?” The rest of the cops had frozen as well, the sight of a sharp weapon apparently sobering one of them up, because he nodded, and held one of his more hotheaded friends back. ”And you’re not coming after us.” After another nod, the large man removed the knife from the cop’s throat, and shoved him with his free hand, hard enough that he crashed down to the floor once again, almost landing on his friend.
Then they walked out, gone quietly, just as they had walked in. Three men writhing on the floor, their friends trying to help them up or soothe their various injuries. The barkeep silently begun pouring himself a pint, as the cellphone reached the emergency hotline.