Violence at the Bar

Charles had many stories explaining how he got his scar, and he took great pleasure in recounting and creating all of them. The scar consisted of three lines that ran parallel across his right eye, and despite looking like it was sustained during a surprise panther attack, the list of those credited for it had included a sparrow, a gecko, and in one of his more creative tales, a blue whale. The perennial favorite, however, was that it was the work of a small and highly determined squirrel with "the fists of Tyson" and a short and unpredictable temper that Charles had flared while attempting to steal the tenacious critter's nuts, despite the mighty firm grip the little fecker had on them. Although he caught the bastard in the air as it flung itself towards him, the furry little swine, squealing and clawing maniacally, drove like greased lightning up his arm and would have taken the eye clean out of its socket had Charles not stuck the menace with his Leather-man. As it stood, he was just half-blind - a price he had willingly paid in return for a gold-standard conversation starter that he had learnt how to fully capitalise on over time. The one slight negative was that it attracted the attention of lunatics in bars, nutters who fancied themselves with a crowbar and would spend their entire evenings scouring clubs for acceptable sparring partners. Due to his massive facial scar, Charles gave the appearance of a man who'd seen his way round a barfight or two, and while he thought that yelling "gimmie a shot o' whiskey" in a harsh, raspy voice at the barmaid made him seem enigmatic, powerful and attractive, all it did was draw hoards of knuckle-cracking behemoths, who would tap him gently on the shoulder to get his attention before ripping seven shades of shit out of him. It was after one such evening that Charles found himself in hospital with a bruise across his forehead that closely resembled Madagascar. He had been polishing off his fifth shot of whiskey with a pained expression on his face, eyes screwed closed and tongue out, when he had felt the tell-tale tap on the back of his shoulder that had the Pavlovian effect of causing his testicles to contract up to his liver in safety. But this time, he told himself, things would be different. Without uttering a word, he clenched his right fist, twisted round, and without even looking at the man who had approached him, swung hard with the kind of lightning-quick, Howitzer-sledgehammer display of force that a man doesn't get up from for a good 40 minutes. Owing to a combination of his compromised depth perception and drunkenness, Charles missed his target by a generous foot and a half and careered off, following for a brief moment the trajectory of his fist, spinning wildly out of control before slipping up on a puddle of beer on the floor and knocking himself out on the edge of the bar. He was taken, still unconscious, to the nearest A&E, where he woke up surrounded by guffawing doctors and giggling nurses; and with a concussion that was aided in no small way by a screaming hangover and an ankle he had twisted when he slipped up on the half-a-pint of Kronenbourg that some kindly stranger had thoughtfully deposited on the floor.