Dangeruss & Tazer

The Chicago Blackhawks had just pulled off the unbelievable. They have won the Stanley Cup. They had spent the whole night cheering and partying. But the celebration continued in the following days. On night number two, they went to the most popular bar in Downtown Chicago to celebrate.

Patrick Kane entered the bar, laughing so hard, that he thought he might pull a muscle or burst some important part of his body. Jonathan Toews had a hold of his arm. He was cracking up as well, but not as much. Brent Seabrook and a few other Blackhawks from the 2010 squad followed behind. Brent was the one telling jokes. They were welcomed by cheers and cat calls.

Patrick, the showman that he was, broke away from the group and bowed his head. “Thank you, thank you!”

Jonathan slapped him on the shoulder, playfully. “Knock it off, Kaner!”

The group of hockey players meandered over to the bar and sat down. They ordered their drinks and began the second evening of celebration. As they rotated through shots, Patrick felt himself becoming more and more eager. His vision transformed and he felt his heart race in his chest. He chugged a pint of beer and downed another shot, to the chant of, “To Patrick Kane, for his game winning goal!”

Around seven shots in, he got up from the bar seat, dragging Jonathan with him at the wrist. Jonathan could handle his alcohol a tiny bit better than his younger roommate could. The shaggy blonde haired man, less than graciously climbed onto the top of the table. He lost his balance a few times, falling back into Jonathan’s arms.

But he soon mustered his control and stripped off his black collared dress shirt that buttoned down the middle. He waved it around in the air, as he was passed a beer from an equally drunk female. He tipped the glass up and managed to slur most of it into his mouth. The woman scrambled onto the table with him, grinding against the hockey player. He tossed the empty pint cup to the side, where it shattered on the ground into pieces.

“Kaner, I think that’s enough! Get down now!” Jonathan shouted, warning Patrick. He frowned, shaking his head.

The younger party hound ignored his friend and flung his shirt down into the kind gentleman’s hands instead. Jonathan caught his shirt and rolled his eyes, as the blonde Blackhawk grabbed the red-haired female in his arms and gave her a rather massive, sloppy, drunk kiss on the lips. The woman didn’t mind, even as the superstar shoved her backward, with disrespect, after releasing her mouth. She fainted into the arms of two other men below.

“Patrick Kane kissed me!” She screamed like a fangirl in the high pitch squeak and then sighed, drawing her hand lightly up to her forehead in the classic faint gesture.

She was ushered off, while Patrick, still shirtless somehow got a stupid idea in his head to piss off some people. He scanned the bar, looking for a potential victim to target. He wanted to give someone a piece of his mind. But he saw no one.

Jonathan Toews, meanwhile, turned his back on his friend, momentarily, passing one of his fellow teammates the black shirt. He had to get Patrick under control before something bad happened.

Patrick, however, had spotted a large man, who he chose as the first target. He hopped off of the table and stumbled up to the man, who had a kind of dark colored villainous looking crew cut. His face was oval shaped and his brows were knit together like a mean guy. He wasn’t having any fun and this infuriated the drunk hockey player.

Jonathan spun back, preparing to make his move, but his friend had vanished from the table and from sight. He desperately glanced around the room, looking for the blonde haired man with a slight mullet. “KANER!? Kaner, where’d you go?” He called, attempted to lift his monotonic voice up, loud enough over the noise in the busy bar.

In Patrick’s head, he thought this guy needed to lighten up and have some fun. “Hey,” the Blackhawk forward gurgled, as he stumbled up and put his arm on the back of the booth seat, hovering over the left shoulder of the man, who wrinkled his nose at the smell of the strong and putrid alcohol that wafted up his nostrils. “Hey, you need---to---lighten up buddy! We won! We won the cup----and….it’s Chicago’s!!” He hiccuped a couple times, smugly grinning. His head lolled to the side and rested on the man’s shoulder briefly, before it was shoved away and Patrick almost crashed to the side.

A snort from the goon sounded, “Drunk asshole, go back to your little teammates.”

Patrick recovered and his eyes flashed in anger. The adrenaline began to kick into his system. “That wasn’t nice! Why don’t you stop being so stuck up and fucking celebrate with us!”

“I’m not a Blackhawk fan! Go away Drunkie and leave me the fuck alone!”

Patrick was shocked and taken aback. He didn’t give up though. “Not a Blackhawk fan? Hey, everyone’s a Blackhawk fan! Don’t be a big dick and have some drinks!”

The man stood up and loomed over the smaller forward, who could be less scared at the rate of inebriation that he was in. The man’s gray colored eyes flashed with fury, as his arm shot out and seized a tight hold around Patrick’s neck, choking him. The blonde’s arms shot up in an instant and he quickly shoved the man’s hand away.

But it was too late to turn back. Patrick had pissed him off too much.

Before he knew it, a fist made contact with his face and he felt a sharp sting in his nose. He gasped, backing away. Crimson dripped from his nostrils and trickled down onto his lips. Patrick licked the tangy saltiness and raised his fists up. The man swung at him again, but missed, going wide, as Patrick jerked his head to the side.

The tiny Blackhawk forward recovered and growled, launching himself forward at the goon, who grabbed him by either shoulder. They danced and twirled around, gradually moving toward the front door. A crowd gathered around them cheering on the Chicago forward. They were all for team pride.

“Go Kaner!” chants rose up all around, as the older man began to beat up the younger hockey player, bruising him and making him bleed out from cuts. It was a dangerously uneven matchup and Patrick Kane was losing big time. But Patrick spat the blood away and ignored the pain and continued to hold his own.

Finally a pair of hands grabbed his bare shoulders and yanked him backward, away, much to the displeasure of the crowd. Jonathan Toews dragged Patrick Kane out of the center of the circle and back into the bar to the safety of the other Blackhawks, who helped the captain out. They worked to restrain the ignited forward, who struggled against their holds to get free and resume the battle.

“Let me go! I need to kick his ass!”

Outside, he saw that the crowd had dispersed, alive with energy still from the show. A few walked off down the sidewalk, while a few returned inside, pointing and clapping at Patrick, who was held still between two of his teammates. Some remained outside hurling bottles and empty beer cans and glass and a numerous other items in the direction of the man, who walked off in fury.

Jonathan snatched a large pint of water that the bartender had prepared, thanking him in the process and hurried back over to where Patrick was still squirming. The captain tipped the glass up, forcing the solute down his friend’s throat.

As the water mixed and eventually drowned the aggressive beverage inside of him, he began to choke and cough, gagging on the liquid. “Johnny that’s enough!” He whined.

Jonathan set the empty glass on the counter, allowing his buddy to breath. Patrick was released from the hold and his hands shot to his head, where an unwelcome throbbing began to bother him. He winced, looking down, finding himself shirtless, bruised and covered in blood. His nose stung as well. And he could taste the tangy saltiness on his lips as well.

“Where’s my shirt? What the hell happened? Why is there blood on me? Did I get into a fight?”

Jonathan reached out and took the damp cloth from the bartender, who had fetched it kindly for him. The serious leader began to dab his friend’s face gently, cleaning him up. “You did, Kaner. Laddy has your shirt, which you stripped and flung down at me. I gave it to him to hold, while I looked for you. You put on quite a show though outside. You picked a fight with the Ranger’s goon!”

“I fought Avery?” Patrick’s eyes went wide.

“Yes you did, Peeks. You fought Sean Avery!”

Patrick looked down at his feet. “He’s going to murder me on the ice, won’t he?”

“He might, Peekaboo, he might,” Andrew Ladd joked, as he came over and passed the young captain his friend’s shirt, which was still gnarled up.

Jonathan, in turn gave it to Patrick, who clutched it in his shaking hands. The Blackhawk leader helped Patrick to sit down in one of the stool. “Don’t worry, no one will let him destroy you...completely!”

“Thanks!” The blonde Chicago player rested his head on his hands, gazing at the bar top, distantly.

Jonathan cracked a sort of smile and put a hand on his buddy’s bare and sweaty shoulders. “That’s enough alcohol for tonight and for a while. You can’t keep getting drunk and causing public disturbances. It is bad for your image, as well as the organization’s. Just portion your drinks and don’t go overboard, okay?”

Patrick bit his lip and gazed up at his captain, painfully and nodded.

“Good. Now let old Johnny help you clean up the rest of the way and get you home!” The captain sat down beside him and began to resume his clean up of the forward. Patrick allowed him, thankful for his rescue.

Meanwhile, Sean Avery, the goon walked away from the bar. The New York Rangers’ number one big, bad Goon, at the time had a side deal with a fashion company. He was in town, attempting to ignore the post-win celebration.

He actually had gotten so annoyed that he went to a bar in Downtown. He thought that he could drink and drown the sorrows of not winning the cup and having to put up with a rival city’s celebration. He met up with a few friends, so that he wouldn’t have to put up with the insane fans pestering him all the time. (And he thought that a bar, would be a great place to escape this!)

However he didn’t realize that this was the most popular sports and party bar in the city. He regretted stepping foot inside of the bar, but he also had a new hatred for the Windy City. He loathed Chicago and he couldn’t wait to get out and leave.

It wasn’t just the weather and the atmosphere; it was the people and more importantly the local Chicago Blackhawk team! He hated Jonathan Toews and all of the team’s players.

As thought about how much he wanted to strangle the team and it’s city, he cracked his knuckles, which he discovered were drenched with Patrick Kane’s blood. He glanced back at the bar, seeing the resistants and fans flinging various objects at him. Nothing hit him, but he observed his bloody knuckle and chuckled to himself.

He turned back around and tossed his head backward, sending a shrill miscreant cackling into the cool Springtime Chicago air. “Patrick Kane, you’re a dead man!!”

Then he walked off, vanishing into the Downtown evening.