willful recruit to the church of alvis

Fighting drunk. Two words that go well together both off the tongue (say them out loud - fighting drunk - sounds good, doesn't it?) but also by way of the effects of alcohol on men with severely fucked brains.

Monday was a prime example of fighting drunk. I was frequenting a drinking establishment with a friend, nursing recently inflicted emotional wounds, when this old guy sits next to us.

Now, when I say "old guy" I don't mean Old Man River or Father Time (although both of those phrase were screamed at the top of my lungs before the night ended), but he was fifty-ish with a drinking problem and a home life that reeked of freshly pressed shit. These dirty little secrets radiated off of him like desperation.

Through the course of our cohabitation, we exchanged a few pleasantries, and when he stood to leave, I shouted drunkenly, "See ya later dude."

The next minutes are a blur...he said something resembling "fuck you" or "go to hell" and when I realized what was happening, my stool was on the floor and I was running to the fight like a butcher walks among sheep. However, my companion had a wrist lock from behind around my waist and another guy was holding me on the front. To top it off, the bartender (a friend of ours, too) was shouting at me to sit down, and that he was not worth it.

I was seething; spittle was flying from my grinding teeth and I moved the whole pile of us toward the old guy, whose girlfriend or wife or who-the-fuck-ever had spoken some words of wisdom and, was backing toward the door.

After he left, the pile fell to the floor and the guys disbarred the holds from me and we retook our seats at the bar. After a couple of minutes, I looked at the bartender and asked, "What the fuck was that guy's deal?"