Cheap

They squared off, circling one another, anger and distrust heating the space between them. "Who the hell do you think you are?" George grunted at his competitor. "You think you can walk into this place and put your hands on anyone you want? That doesn't fly with me pal!"

His pal threw a left hook, missing George by inches, stumbling slightly over his own feet. George stepped back, but didn't throw a punch. He was angry, but not stupid. He knew his moment would come. "And now your throwing punches? That is not allowed in my establishment. I suggest you leave now before you end up hurting yourself or someone else."

A crowd had gathered giving a narrow berth for the men to weave between. "The only person who's going to get hurt is you," the pal responded before lunging forward. Alcohol played havoc with his coordination and he nearly tripped again, catching his rib on the side of the table. George saw him wince in pain as he regained his balance and height. Slowly, George began walking backwards, parting the crowd like the Red Sea.

The man came after him again, his slurred war anthem blaring "F*** you!" He swung his right fist at George's face. Checking to see the path had cleared and the door was still open, George used the man's momentum to send him sailing into the street. The street police would be near. They always were and they would take care of this situation. A cheap shot some would say, but one that had served him well for years.

George turned his back, his bouncers standing guard at the door. The police came running, alerted by the man's loud protest. A smile spread across his face as he announced half price beers for the next five minutes.

*** Daily Writing Practice ***