Vlad in the Shit

"That's quite a big game to be talking, for such a little guy. Do me a favor? Keep talking."
"I will."
"Good."
"Your mother's a whore."

For a moment, neither Vlad nor the much larger man moved a hair. They stood there by the beat-up wood of the bar, with the sounds of the place just cascading over everything. This place was dirty. How we ended up squaring off against the Irish boys in this place, I don't remember. It was that sort of place. It soaked into your skin, made you act a certain way. It made you feel dangerous. And we were drenched in it. Especially Vlad. He looked tough standing his ground against this sandpaper-faced brute, but a second later he was on his back. At least four flannel clad individuals were blurs of fists and elbows coming up and down again at his shape. Somewhere between the jukebox and the rest room is where he ended up. A John Mellencamp song came on, and I decided I was going to do something stupid.

"Hey. Fucktart."
The Irish boys turned toward the sound of my voice.
"How about a fair fight? Or are you all going for a quick bathroom break together, maybe play with each other in the stalls a bit?"
Now, in my not-quite limited experience with barroom brawls, I've found that a well placed quip can do wonders for disarming the bomb of an ugly situation. This is why I was surprised when none of the Irish fellows cracked the edge of a smile. It was just rage in their eyes. I thought to myself, this is a huge mistake. A smaller guy, about my size came right for me. Possibly, he didn't notice I was holding a glass mug in each fist. Possibly, he just didn't care. I got him right in the temple with the mug in my right, and it didn't even break. There was a satisfying thud that sprung the other boys straight into action. Now there were five.
What these guys didn't realize is that I've much more experience in getting the piss beat out of me by multiple parties than singly. I find that the more people there are trying to get a piece of you, the greater the chances are that not a one will really be able to put too much power into it. Arms get tangled, fists get deflected—it's a much uglier thing to watch than to actually be at the bottom of. When I dropped, the mugs in my fists smashed against the cement floor. Now they were a jagged mess of thick angular glass. I cut, slashed and stabbed their knees and thighs until they backed off. One of the boys got it real bad. The blood flowed like a burst pipe on the inside of his leg.
"What the fuck did you do that for? What the fuck is the matter with you? Somebody call a fucking ambulance!"
"Go fuck your mothers, you fucking pussies!" I yelled.
"Geez Christ, man, calm down. Get your buddy and take a fucking hike, huh? Before the cops show."
It was then that I remembered Vlad. I scanned the floor before seeing him sitting at one of the tables near the entrance. The bastard was just drinking a beer, gingerly as anything. As if he were waiting for me to finish up in the rest room or something.
And that's the way the sonofabitch always was. He had a knack for the setting things into motion part of things, but he was always ducking out mid-shitstorm and leaving the mess for some poor moron who happened to call himself a friend that day. It was impressive, really.