Well Misspent Youth

Year 30: She wasn't hard to find. They stopped at the nearest seedy bar and there she was.

Michael grinned slyly as he approached her. “I used to go to little roadside bars and get into fights.”

Claire looked at him and said, “Weren't you afraid of getting hurt? Not that I have aaaaany problem with you and bars or fighting.”

Michael sat down next to her at the bar. The bartender looked like he'd gut his cat for purring too loud. He looked at Michael like he was that cat. Michael made a hand waggle. “What's the most expensive thing you have?” he asked, snarkily.

The guy slammed down a Crown Royal bottle. It wasn't small and Claire made a gleeful noise. Michael looked back towards the door where Morgan was standing against the wall. He eyed the crowd which was making appropriately unfriendly glares. A gleam came to his eye. He pulled a hundred out and laid it on the counter. Then, he pulled out another. “Pour it,” he commanded.

The bartender spit in his glass before pouring. Michael remembered this bar housed a gang of white supremecists once. Perhaps, they hadn't forgotten him. The glass was filled with ice and water. It was going to be good night, indeed. Michael removed his Movado watch and put it in his pant pocket. He then removed an ice cube and chucked it at Morgan's head. It missed a shy left. Morgan moved a bit closer.

Michael then proceeded to upturn the glass on the floor, using his hands to catch the ice. He grabbed the bottle and poured a full glass on the rocks and tossed it back like a shot. Claire was watching everything he did up until then with mild confusion. “Impressive. I think they're going to kill you.”

“Either, I'm going to be in a fight, or the bottle is going to be emptied.” Michael silently counted out two minutes, then made a motion for another glass. Leaving it to the bartender resulted in another watered down scotch. Michael quaffed the entire glass in one go, as well. After two more, he looked back, deliberately wobbled and tried to put his watch back on. Only Claire could see the smile on his face.

One of the patrons walked up and tried to take Michael's watch. “Mind if I take this, pretty boy?”

Michael looked up with a dazed, somewhat unfocused look on his face. “Me? Pretty?”

“Yeah,” he said, grabbing Michael's chin and yanking it toward his face. “If you were any prettier, I would screw you.”

“I would you? Kiss me, sweetheart.” Michael definitely didn't look steady.

The tough went to throw a punch and Michael, who wasn't too far from sober, stepped neatly away. His palm, with the watch band around it, smacked into the back of the guy's head. The next nearest gang member came at him with a beer bottle. Michael came around with a kick to the ribs and followed with an uppercut to the jaw. Michael's wedding ring left a angry red mark. The ensuing crashing sound prompted Morgan to stand up straight. The minute he did, the bar cleared. Michael flexed his left hand and commented, “Dammit, they still remember us. They didn't even land a blow this time. And I was afraid I was out of practice.”

Michael tossed a couple more hundreds on the bar and left. Claire ran out after him, Morgan following. Michael took a tiny derringer out and shot it in the air to clear the gang members that were conspiring revenge on his car.

As they all got in his car, Claire leaned on the front seat and asked, “Okay, how did you do that?”

“Do what?” Michael asked, feigning innocence.

“I saw you blast four scotches and then ...”

Michael laughed uproarously. “I barely had two. The first one was on the rocks. I normally can down five in a row neat before I start having any coordination problems. The rest were scotch-colored water. They, on the other hand, were fairly beer-buzzed and while strong, aren't coordinated to begin with. I usually get into a drinking contest first, but they went straight for the expensive watch routine.”

“And if you got into a drinking contest, how would you have won?”

“I'd pretend I was a sloppy drunk. My other trick is to spray it out my nose with my hand cupped over my mouth while dabbing my face with a handkerchief. They're usually too drunk to really notice.”

Morgan said softly, “I was hoping you'd outgrown your street fighting tendencies. I get tired of blood on my hands.”