Halloween Weekend was pretty busy for us. Lots of Non-Austinites were in town, muddying up our beloved town and its vibe.
Bouncer – of previous story infamy – found a Hispanic male, about 6’2, ~195 lbs, average build, vomiting in the restroom. As this is obviously against bar policy, Bouncer informs this tall, Hispanic male – herein referred to as King Douche – that it’s high time for him to leave. KD initially is resistive to the idea, making fuss enough to make Barback’s (too of previous story infamy) spider-senses tingle. Barback approaches the situation, and KD, realizing he is outnumbered, gives up without further struggle, and leaves the bar.
Bouncer returns to me standing at the door, gives me KD’s description, and tells me not to let him back in.
Okay. This is where the story should end. But it doesn’t.
A few minutes pass, and Bouncer returns to me.
“Did you let that guy in the red shirt back in?”
“No,” I told him.
“Okay. Let’s go kick him out. He looks rowdy, so let’s grab Nice Guy, too.”1
The three of us approach the crowd. “That’s the guy,” Bouncer heard KD say to his fat friend.
First, diplomacy. As the resident diplomat of our bar, I made first contact…:
“Hey man, my bouncer said that you were throwing up in the restroom. You need to leave.”
“Na bro, I’m good,” KD says. He is taller than me, bigger than me, and has a bottle in his right hand.
“Listen, I’m the manager. I’m telling you that you need to leave.” My left eye is glued to the bottle. I think on one of those martial arts science shows, they stated that weapons wielded by one hand can impact their target at upwards of 35 miles/hour. I suspect a bottle shattered at 35 mph over my head would make an awful mess of my face.
“Na bro, I said I’m good.” KD’s posturing has become aggressive. I guess his plan is to intimidate me into going away.
“Look…I don’t care what you have to say. You need to leave!” Judging by his continued posturing to my reply, KD is dead-set on strangling diplomacy into nothingness.
“Go away –” he stops short for an irritated inhalation before continuing, “You know what?! One,” he yells, flapping his arms at the elbows (while his hands stay in the same place, more or less), and continuing on with the general aggressive posturing.
And is this guy counting? I guess he thinks I’m five years-old?
“Two.” Another flap. Moments like these always make me wonder how people could ever believe we didn’t come from animals.
That brief observation aside, I also realize in that split second that most people who count only do so to three, then come consequences – AND we were already at two. Well shit. Call it self-preservation, preservation of face-against-bottle smashing. Call me an incurious bastard about the “Surprise!” which almost assuredly was coming at his three count. Call me all these things…but, realizing what was almost certainly coming in a fraction of a second, I closed what little distance was left between King Douche and I, overhooked his stupidly flapping arms (paying close attention to his bottle-hand), and stuck my forehead under his jawline.
Oh did he start struggling then! Cussing up a storm too.
But I’ve heard those cuss-words before. And I knew the struggle, too. Not wanting to dance with KD right there on the dance floor – what would everybody think? And I was still a little worried about his bottle – I transitioned from tight double-overhooks to an armdrag for the back.
Once I established a modified, standing back-control – my right hand controlling his right arm, and my left arm over his shoulder, left hand gripping my right wrist – I realized I really caught myself a marlin! Goodness this guy was trying to ‘rassle with me. I’ll be damned if I was going to let him go before he was out the door.
The King of Douches’ lust for battle, however, was insatiable. And he continued to struggle, and continued to struggle, as I dragged him from behind out the side entrance. So we slipped on the wet bar floor. He fell on top of me, and I momentarily lost my modified back control. Being on the ground while the number of combatants is unknown, in a dark, confusing, overly loud environment is probably not the best idea – I decided, in the split-second I found myself underneath him. He came to the same conclusion, as he stopped struggling with me to regain his footing. I let go of his hand to stand up in base – but I had wisdom enough to keep my chest to his back as much as possible.
My left arm still draped over his left shoulder, he began to turn around (toward me) to strike me. This, of course, was unacceptable. In the instant he moved to turn around into me, his right arm was temporarily behind his back. I grabbed his wrist, palm up, and doubled him backward with my left arm.
Now in a pain-compliance hold, My Marlin was suddenly and very surprisingly docile.2 How the mighty doth fall. In fact, he tapped me with his left hand, indicating perhaps I was applying it too tightly and was about to hurt him. Well, he hadn’t hurt me, so why should I hurt him? Maybe My Marlin was all posture, after all. Maybe nothing was going to happen as he reached three. Maybe I overreacted. Maybe this fellow trains. Maybe he has some honor after all! So I loosened up on his twisted arm, opened the side door with my back, turned us around, walked a few more steps so that he was successfully out of the club, and let go. All would be right with the world now. Rainbows and smiles.
No. That son of a bitch turned around the microsecond I let go and swung his wildest haymaker punch right at your humble narrator’s noggin.
I’ll continue this story tomorrow. I have to run an errand. Sorry, my audience, I didn’t update yesterday. I went home Monday, and spent the first half of this week running around back home – eating way too much food, training, and sleeping all day. You know, all the things we do when we get home.
1. “Nice Guy” is one of our part-time bouncers. He’s a genuinely nice guy, and pretty damn good at jiu-jitsu too.
2. The hold is nearly identical to one of the Gracie Jiu-Jitsu headlock defenses.