#c ross

[domchuckclayton]

@rossberry : Rude, perhaps...but not a punishable offense, right, Sir? Because I don't see how anyone could /resist/ staring when you look like that...

I suppose I could let this one go as a one time thing. But, I don’t give favors without getting something in return. What do you offer?

[mitchedmartialartist-blog]

Hangry Grass || Ross & Mitch

When working out and listening to the radio got to be too much, he had to get out of his house. When the voices on the radio started seeming less like something transmitting words and ideas and more like godawful noise, he had to get out of his house.

Even when the cash from his last fight was starting to run low, his wallet gone violently skinny. Even when drinking beer, and especially drinking beer at night fucked with his body, which in turn fucked with his money.

Mitch scowled into his half finished beer. What was it again? Right, he'd just said whatever, and he'd just gotten whatever. Half froth too. Maybe he was wearing out his welcome. He'd skipped out on tips the last few times he visited The Empty Glass.

The bass from the music made little Jurassic Park ripples in his beer. At least there was eye candy.

He glanced at Miranda in her bikini top.

Sort of.

Hockey season was starting tonight, wasn't it? Right. Problem was, he didn't give a shit about hockey. Not the Bruins, not the Canadians, not whatever the Long Island team was called. Mitch cleared his throat. He was getting all phlegmy. Probably some kind of fucking cold.

His short fuse got worse when he didn't have any distractions. Boredom clipped it down to nothing. The internet was a way to scratch that itch, he'd learned, but it was starting a fight without the catharsis, the payoff. What was the point if the person wasn't

there to punch? Or to punch back?

He downed the rest of his beer.

The song changed.

Why the fuck was he here? It wasn't the atmosphere or even the booze. No, if he wanted to get shitfaced, he could do it alone in his house and not even wear pants doing it, thanks a bunch, seeya later. He furrowed his brow.

The bar was so fucking dirty. Was there a bouncer around? There had to be. His heart rate picked up.

"Gimme a fucking scorpion bowl."

The bartender wasn't Miranda, no, she was across the restaurant dumping hosewater on a thirsty patron. No, this was some jealous little scumbag. Some little fuckwit who maybe knew who Mitch was and wanted to cause trouble. Some true jackass of the night.

So that's why the bartender replied:

"Sir, scorpion bowls are meant to be shared, there's too much alcohol-"

Mitch slapped a hand on the bar. Several patrons looked over, but most didn't. The music was still thumping in the background.

"I said gimme a fucking scorpion bowl, look at what kind of place you're working in. This fucking shitbox? You're working in this shitbox and you're telling me you won't serve me a scorpion bowl? Your head bitch is making it rain fucking hosewater!"

He felt more eyes on him and wiped his nose with the side of his hand.

The bartender was slipping back into some door marked Private. Fuck. This was what getting kicked out of a bar was. Mitch squeezed one hand into a fist. Time to do what he'd come here to fucking do.

There was some scrawny looking fuckwit.

Fair fights were the best fights, but this would have to do. Across the bar, out of the corner of his eye, there was the fucking pissant bartender. This would have to be quick.

"Hey fuckface." He pressed one nostril down with his thumb and blew a nice big snot rocket out of the other.