My friend related a fun fighting anecdote to me recently. Some years ago, he explained, he was waiting in line to get into a Hollywood bar/nightclub. The establishment happened to have a particularly discerning doorman, and as such a crowd had formed waiting to get in. My friend was waiting patiently alongside his date, when an inebriated bully – upset at the delay – began harassing innocent bystanders, trying to rally the crowd to rise up against the doorman.
After a time, my friend took the initiative and told the guy that he was causing trouble and that he should leave. I need to add that my friend is not a particularly imposing man; he’s in good shape but even so, he’s of just above average height and build. Additionally, he was wasted, having taken a bunch of Vicoden and booze. He was, he explained, feeling good, feeling loose.
The rabble-rouser immediately challenged my friend to fight and my friend – let’s call him Pete (not his real name) – accepted. From here the two of them adjourned to the nearby parking lot. Pete was surprised to see that many in the crowd followed along to watch the show. And here’s where the story gets good.
The drunken man was bouncing around excited to get into it, fists held aloft, shouting enticements like “Come on!” and “You’re gonna get it!”
Pete put a finger in the air to signal that he needed a moment, which for some reason the bully honored. Pete stepped aside and carefully removed his cowboy boots, instructing his girlfriend to keep a close eye on them. Barefoot, he then centered himself with some deep breaths and took his time stepping to the instigator. He let out an imitation Bruce Lee howl and improvised a martial arts move before settling into a crouching Karate-kid-esque stance. Only then did he signal his willingness to begin.
Taken aback, the guy asked Pete, “What r’u gonna do some Karate shit on me or something?”
Pete answered with more of the same fake-Asian hooting nonsense. He explained to me that he was just out of his mind and wasn’t the slightest bit afraid he was so wasted. He was just having fun with it, but whatever he was doing, the bully didn’t like it. After surveying the situation one last time, he decided to cut his losses. He turned and ran as a cheer went up from the bystanders.
Pete explained that the doorman had been watching and as soon as he returned the boots to his feet, he was escorted into the club like the returning hero that he was.
So what’s the moral of the story? You got me. Maybe take good care of your cowboy boots?