Flamboyant Aggression

Some people use alcohol to get out their aggression.

Daniel Klassen walked in through the front doors, out of the hot afternoon humidity and into the refreshing embrace of the air-conditioned pub. He thought to himself as he entered that he enjoyed a pub that kept the atmosphere inside cold, as these places tend to get a little sweaty on a Friday night. Must be all the drunk flailing that works up a sweat, liquor pouring out of pores like an over-saturated sponge. It was his first time coming to Brondt’s Neighbourhood Bar, and upon entering it he found it to be satisfactory, just satisfactory. There was nothing wrong with it, but there was also nothing to set it apart. It had its predictable few over-drinkers, made apparent by their voices that were too loud even for a bar, and it also had cups, food, and liquor. Yep. Daniel mused. It’s a pub, all right. 

Looking around, he failed to find the other five friends that were to be joining him, and he figured it was probably because he was fifteen minutes early, and being that they all lived in this neighbourhood, they most likely had the punctuality of the commute perfected. He went to seat himself, after reading the sign that told him it was that casual seat-yourself-type of establishment. He opted for the corner table, giving him a wide field of view for the people watching that he assured himself would make the fifteen minutes pass by quickly. The waitress came around and he explained that he was waiting for five more people, lest she assume he chose the large table out of greed.

After she walked away to tend to her other customers, he scanned the crowd to see if there was any one of interest. He saw the usual bar scene for 6:45pm. Most people were pretty mellow, just enjoying a drink and a conversation, while a few were fitting the aforementioned over-drinkers, slurring their words and talking about how fun everything is tonight but not thinking about tomorrow morning. One guy, though, attracted Daniel’s attention more than the others.

The man he chose to watch was seated in the centre of the table arrangement, alone, at a table that was quite obviously meant to seat at least four. Upon first glance, he looked average enough. Around six feet tall (when standing, of course, not seated), short cropped and average brown hair, a fair build that was apparent even under a long-sleeved shirt, and a beard that Daniel judged to be around a month old. He’s no Georges St-Pierre, but I wouldn’t f**k with him. The detail that caught Daniel’s attention was the drink he was enjoying. No, he was not only enjoying it, he was boasting it. He would sip it, then hold it out to take a good look at it, then look around to see if anyone else was seeing the masterpiece he was drinking.

It was, Daniel decided, the most flamboyant drink he had ever seen. The glass itself was most likely purchased from a bong shop, with all of its twists and surprises, and was definitely only used for this particular concoction. The glass, being transparent, showed the florescent pink coloration to said concoction the a clump of Skittles lining the bottom. Sprouting up from the concoction was a straw with enough loops and swirls to dizzy a ninja. The rim of the glass was coated in sugar and dressed in a number of different fruit slices. All in all, the drink was fiercely obnoxious. To each their own, I guess.

Daniel continued watching him, and began to notice that the man was looking at everyone in the bar with a hint of aggression. What Daniel initially thought was pride in his drink eventually revealed itself to be a challenging display. It was if the man was waiting for someone to say something to him about the femininity of his drink. When no one took to the bait, he began grasping his hands right into the f*****g pond. Any eye contact from someone else warranted a vocal challenge. He began yelling things like:

“What, you goh a prollim wi'muh drink? Come say it to my fist you p***y!” or, “Nice beer, you coward. Why-on’t you try a real drink? What? You don’t think this’s a guy’s drink?” and “Oh, you’ve a son, do yuh? I bet he f*****g sucks. And your dick prolly smells bad too. Fight me. No? B***h.” and even more obscure things, like “You look like the typa guy who would hit a dog wi’your car. I trained swords wi’f*****g Ghandi, you scumbag.”

To Daniel’s amazement, not one of the customers rose to the challenge. Not even the other drunks were saying anything back to him. Normally, there would be at least one person who would step in to calm the storm, but no. In Daniel’s moment of confusion, his friends walked in. He couldn’t wait to see what they had to say about this guy. They all sat down and Daniel gave the barest of greetings before explaining his observations. They listened to Daniel’s account with flat eyes, which Daniel also found strange, as this was exactly the type of thing his group of friends found entertaining.

His friend, Mark, cleared up his confusion by explaining, “Oh, yeah, that’s just Daren. He’s a regular. Just ignore him, his dog died like a month ago and ever since he’s been ordering the girliest drinks to try and get someone to fight him. Super nice guy under normal circumstances, though.”

At that explanation, Daniel felt the strangest sympathy he had ever felt. I guess some people just try to drink their way through grief.