“Don’t shake my hand if you don’t mean it,” he says.
“I mean it,” I tell him.
He walks over and says, “You don’t like me do you?”
Here we go. "I don’t know you. But you bought me a drink so I wanted to say thank you."
“Your damn right I did.”
I've already seen him fall twice. He’s drunk.
“I’m drunk," he says. He looks over his shoulder. "Is that guy with you?”
The guy behind us is talking to the tatted hipster girl that my new drunk friend walked in with. She has already told everyone in the bar she is married, but not to my new drunk friend. They just met across the street and happened to walk in together.
“Him? No, I don’t know him,” I said.
“He can stab me, I don’t give a fuck.”
“Ya, I don’t know that guy.”
“Where are you from?”
“United States Marine Corps!” he says as he pounds his chest. (I should note that he is not from VCity, he is visiting from Dayton.)
“That’s great. I respect that.”
“Where are you from?" he asks again, this time more angry.
“I was born in St. Louis,” I answer.
"No! Where are you from?!!!” I see what he's getting at, he thinks I’m Mexican or something. It doesn't pay to be tan in this town. He narrows his psycho eyes, pounds his chest and shouts, “United States Marine Corps!”
I’m ready to hit him the first sec he makes a move. Vic the bartender comes by, who is pretty plastered in his own right. The Marine points to me and asks, “Is he alright?" I roll my eyes at Vic.
“Ya, he’s cool,” Vic says.
“What about him?” Pointing to the guy behind me.
“He’s cool too,” Vic says as he walks away. The Marine shakes my hand and gives me a bro-hug.
Within two minutes the Marine’s shirt is off and he's toe-to-toe with the guy behind me. Just so happens the guy behind me has a roommate in the bar who is also a Marine and is able to talk Marine speak - "STAND DOWN MARINE!! I SAID STAND DOWN SOLDIER!!!" - to calm him down, which actually works for a couple minutes. I decide to make-out with the hipster married chick (who I nicknamed Betty Page) while all this is going on. She tells me I’m hot and that her and her husband have a mutual understanding. She asks for my #. I give it to her with the condition that her hubby won't come after me with a shotgun.
…I guess I’m an adulterer not a fighter.