Signs Misleading to Nowhere

Okay, a word of advice to all of you out there; don’t ignore Sherif when she's talking to you. Especially when she's got a boyfriend with a gun. That's all I've got to say on the matter, and nothing more.
Sherif, after letting us explain (and several threats mentioning bodily harm), in a much clearer and more understandable way then my mental break-down, she finally decided to let him stay (after much begging, pleading, and apologizing on our part, of course).

Right now, I was standing outside Murder City doing my usual thing. I was the bouncer, even though I was tiny, 'cause Paul taught me how to fight hand-to-hand, and Sherif improved upon that. Of course, there are all those years of wrestling with Razor, but that doesn't count in the "real world", whatever the hell that is. Everything earlier aside, it was just another normal night at the bar, letting people in, kicking people out, etcetera. Til' this already drunk idiot showed up. He was tall, really tall (but considering how short I am, anyone's taller than me), and was buff, like works-out-at-the-gym-24/7-buff. I recognized him from somewhere, though I could exactly place where I had seen him.

So we have a tall, buff, drunk guy stumbling about, most likely bar-hopping. What fun.

"Hey, you. Yeah, t-t-the shor' bitch! Where da fuck can I g-get 'nother drink?" His words were stuttered and slurred by the many, many drinks I'm assuming he'd consumed.

"Fuck off man, you're obviously too drunk. You need to head on home to your mommy, kid. Or else," I retorted, hoping to anger him with what I said, because I was just itching to fight and get some stress out. In this case, it'd be on this poor, unsuspecting drunkard.

"O-or else wha-" he interrupted himself with a hiccup, the continued, "what, ya two-dollar s-slut? I dou-" I cut him off with a solid right hook before he could even finish the word. No one calls me a two-dollar slut, no one. He stumbled back, looking shocked and holding his chin. When he stopped going back, he paused, rubbing his chin, before glaring at me and letting out what I can only describe as a "man roar." You know that wordless sound that guys make right before they jump into a fight? Yeah, that.

The drunk, let's call him "Richie", charged forward swinging wildly, trying to knock me down by pure chance and force. I managed to dodge the swings, but I wasn't able to get a hit in. I dodged and observed, "Richie" getting angrier and angrier each time he missed (which was often) . Just to infuriate him more, I sang clips from a few new Green Day songs.
"Someone kill the DJ, shoot the fucking DJ
Someone kill the DJ, shoot the fucking DJ
Someone kill the DJ, shoot the fucking DJ
Hold him underwater
'Til the mother fucker drowns~.

Shut your mouth 'cause you're talking too much

And I don't give a fuck anyway

You always seem to be stepping in shit

And all you really do is complain



I'm a troublemaker
Never been a faker
Doing things my own way
And never giving up
I'm a troublemaker
Not a double taker
I don't have
The patience
To keep it on the up"

It was the same thing; he wasn't varying at all in his pattern, just one big repetitive dance. He came swinging in again from the right, and I twirled out of the way, enraging him further because he couldn’t even get a glancing blow on me. Now, if he was sober, he might have been more of a challenge, and would most likely be getting more blows in. Again he came at me, and I did a small cartwheel out of the way, but I was knocked off balance and sent tumbling onto my back. “Richie,” no matter how drunk he was, realized somewhere in his hazy mind that he had finally hit me after almost ten minutes of trying (and failing).

He immediately tried to stomp on me, but I was-barely-able to role away from his foot. Sick of rolling around on the ground, I pushed myself up with my hands, onto my knees. From there, I had to go into a deformed version of a bridge, but using my hands as a point of leverage, I was able to bring my legs out from underneath me, and go into an impromptu handstand, while at the same time just clipping “Richie” in his chin, and flipping to land on my feet, facing away from him. As I did his, a painful-sounding thud sounded from behind me. Turning, I saw him sprawled out on the ground, groaning, and holding his chin.

Walking over, I lightly kicked him in the ribs. It still probably hurt more than it should have, seeing as I’m wearing my ever present steel-toed combat boots. He looked at me, and I gave off a shark-like grin, before raising my leg, and bringing it straight down. He howled in pain, and curled up in the fetal position, holding his “precious” family jewels. I just laughed, “It’s your own fucking fault. Now, calling me a bitch, I can live with, ‘cause I’ve known that since I was five, but a ”two-dollar-slut”? That’s going much, much too far.” I placed one foot on his hip, and cocked the other back. “Nighty-night, asshole,” I said before I brought my foot forward into his head, just hard enough to knock him out.

Suddenly, I heard clapping coming from my left, and I spun around, lowering my body into a crouch, reading to move at moment’s notice. There was only one person, a boy maybe my age or year or two older. He had a slightly sarcastic smile on his face; I didn’t like him as soon as I laid eyes on him. “Nicely done. I think my favorite part was when you kicked him in the chin, quite a creative way you got up,” he commented.

“Get lost, don't think I'm crazy. I don't want you to understand, to hell with your helping hand. Why don't you just leave me alone? This conflict is my own.” And with a parting quote from Green Day, I turned and walked away. I stopped at the door to Murder City, and looked back at the boy. He was just standing there, a ‘deer-in-the-headlights’ look on his face. I shrugged and went inside to take care of my bruises and scrapes.