I had a sudden inkling of inspiration. I knew how the stool had gotten broken. I knew why. A distant emotion welled up in me, one my body recognized, and my mind went blank as I sat there on my rear. A few people nearby had been sitting around long enough to know there was a good reason for them to vacate. Well, there actually wasn't, but then they didn't know that. I'm not the type to go laying waste to anything nearby just because one damned drunk was stupid enough get me pissed off. Speaking of, the drunk in question had yet to get my full attention. I took the time to concern myself with the spreading scarlet stain on my shirt. The wine had spilled. The wine I had paid good money for, the wine I was drinking, had been spilled.

There could have been more subtlety to the way I stood up, but I was drunk. I was also Angry, complete with capital-A, and my self-restraint had been shattered sometime between when she had slapped me on the back and hit me in the stomach. It wasn't even that hard a hit, given that I had been slugged by some of the biggest heavy-hitters of the heavy-hitter industry (I swear to god, they have a freakin' industry pumping out minotaurs and rock golems just to screw with my day.), but it had been enough to knock me over. I'm unforgiving. The cheap glass wine bottle slammed down onto the floor, suddenly righted by the sheer force of my (un)righteous wrath. A crack split its side, unnoticed while I eased to my feet and looked down at the little black-haired drunk who had ruined her own day.

"I hope you're gunna pay for that," he growled. I could have grunted. I could have shouted or screamed I could have just said it. I could have, but I didn't. I didn't do it that way because that just did not get the right message across. I was pissed off enough that I was going to hurt her but not enough that I couldn't be placated. Growls are just warnings.

I was warning her. See how polite I am? A warning. I'm very polite. Come to think of it, wolves are pretty damned polite, too; I wonder what a drunk wolf is like.

As I spoke, my hand made a vague motion between indicating and pointing at the cracked bottle of wine. That was just clear enough to make it obvious to some other people, the few who had been around a short enough time that they didn't see the fight coming, to understand in a burst of drunken clarity. They showed their understanding in the way all drunks show their understanding and their empathy.

"FIGHT!"

By the time he was done screaming it, the drunk in question had already gotten punched in the gut with a fist about the size of ham. I held myself calmly aloof as a small pocket of violent drunks joined him, while the others scuttled off into corner booths or upstairs rooms where they could relieve their aggression in a more humane way. God, I love drunks. Their priorities are so messed up that you can't help but laugh at them, when you're not busy crying.

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[Graphics by Me.]

[The signature links to Aleksandr Sokoll.]
["I believe in sleeping." ~ Bruce Lee]