About 7 years ago I spent a few months working as a bouncer. Just as a way to make some extra cash, and it did have a few hilarious moments. The funniest happened though after I thought it was over for good.
I had spent a Saturday night with friends, listening to music, having dinner, great conversation and aperitifs.
When I got home at midnight, my phone rings.
“Hi Thomas, it’s Jen. The guy we got to replace you didn’t show up. I was wondering if you would be able to work a shift?”
“No not really. I left and I left for a reason. I despise that place with every fiber of my being.”
“I know but there are 350 people in there and only Brad and Pete are on. Please?”
I hemmed and hawed for a second, and then thought, oh what the hell. I told her not to make a habit out of this though, that this was the last time. I don’t know what possessed me but I went. I liked the two guys I worked with, but the establishment was an east end shithole. Choans getting wasted as they listened to classic rock tribute bands. AC-DC one night, Judas Priest the next night. *shudder*
I got there at about 01:00 and it was going okay, until about 01:45 when the fun really started.
Several women came out, a variety of ages, and they were all very upset.
“That pervert.” “I can’t believe this place.” “You should do something about that guy.”
“What’s the matter? Tell me what’s going on please?”
“Some creep was grabbing at our asses and tits as we walked past.”
“That fucking low life grabbed my mom’s crotch!” one of them said pointing to the oldest woman in the group, who was maybe late fifties, early sixties.
“Can you point him out to me? If he did this to you, he’ll do it to someone else.”
I went inside with two of them and they couldn’t see him. Milled around for a minute, and then headed back outside. On the way out I corralled Pete and had these women tell him what had transpired. They gave Pete a description, and he rolled his eyes and said “Oh shit. I know exactly who you mean.” From the description I had a suspicion as to who it was, and I was proven correct.
A vile, cretinous little troll came in once in a while, by the name of Carlos. He’s utterly despicable when he’s sober and it just goes downhill from there. He is a mean, surly, belligerent drunk. He invariably causes problems, and Pete had violently ejected him on several occasions. Why he’s let back in is beyond me, but anyway.
Brad and Pete are having a confrontation with him at the inner door to the place. Clyde (who ran the company I worked for) is also there. All I can hear this lowlife saying is something about his smokes, that he’s not leaving without his smokes. Brad is telling him, “You just donated your smokes to some other Oakwood retard,” and tells him that he is leaving now.
At this point a youngish man (19, 20) who I had seen with these women saunters over and punches him right in the face, really hard.
“That’s for touching my grandmother, you fucking pig,” and then proceeds to spit on him.
I step in between them and tell the young guy, “That’s enough, we’ll handle this.”
Brad and Pete grab both handles of the scumbucket and start walking him through the lobby. He keeps spluttering that he didn’t do anything. Of course. Someone approaches who I think is just a patron. He proceeds to lay the most almighty punch straight to his face. Pete moves towards this guy, who dekes past Pete and punches him a second time, even harder than the first, so hard in fact that he goes flying and smashes his skullet (balding but still rocking the soccer rocker) right into the wall. Brad picks him up off the floor, twists his right arm in a hold, grabs him by the scruff of the neck, pushes his head down and frog marches him towards the door. Another man approaches and kicks him right in the face! I’m trying to ward off the first irate family member, Pete is keeping the second one at bay, Clyde the third one. When he gets outside, several more guys proceed to start kicking and punching him. The women are trying to restrain them, but to little avail. Several friendlies have come out to help us maintain order. Several former crew members and some other guys who could be relied on to back us up in a pinch.
Brad is trying his darndest to protect this guy from a mob that has tasted blood and wants more. (And I really can’t blame them.) This vermin is just a bloody mess by this point, with probably a broken nose, with what looks like the start of two black eyes, a bloody mouth, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he had just lost what few teeth he had left. So this loser, with a battered and bruised and bloody face, a virtual mob out to kill him, is getting lippy with Brad, and tries to assault him! He takes an ineffectual swing at Brad, who very casually elbows him across the head.
Pete, Clyde and I are trying desperately to stave of yet another mob assault. I’m telling these guys that I understand how they feel, that I can sympathize with their anger, but that this isn’t the place for it. What I really wanted to say was, “Come on guys, how about letting me get in a kick or two.” Just as we block the path of one, another one comes from another angle and gets in a kick to the ribs or a punch to the face. Clyde is telling this loser to get in a cab, but he keeps saying that we’re a bunch of assholes and that he didn’t do anything. Sure, several very convincing sounding women just made up some story to pick on some random stranger, who just happens to be a drunken piece of trash. He doesn’t seem to grasp that he looks like he went about twenty five rounds with Mike Tyson, that about seven or eight sons, grandsons and sons in law of this lady want to brutalize him. What a moron. He keeps on mouthing off to the people who are risking their own safety to protect his worthless life. I was pretty much ready to walk away and say “go to it boys,” when one of our backups whistles from across the street. He has flagged a cab, Clyde and Brad grab him and start hauling him to the cab. I hear the loser saying that he wants to wait for his ride! Pete and I and Al and Mike (two of our good samaritan backups) are walking phalanx trying to ward off further dive bombing attacks. Before he gets to the other side of the street, several more blows have landed, and a few more are attempted. He gets to the cab, and while everyone else is trying to hold back his lynch mob he just stands there, his face looking like something from a horror movie, telling me I have no right to tell him what to do!
“Get in the cab.”
“Get in the cab!”
“GET IN THE CAB!!”
One of our guys grabs him and manhandles him into the cab, although not before slamming his head into the roof first.
The cab pulls away and thirty meters further stops at a red light. This entire mob of guys go storming after it, and reach it. Clyde and I go running after them. By the time we got there, they had three doors open, were trying to drag him out and assaulting him, one guy was in the front seat, landing punches from there. The light changes, the cab takes off, and I don’t know how many of them were still in there, pummeling him. The guys that were standing on the pavement I told to get the hell out of here. I ran back to the bar.
I had spent a Saturday night with friends, listening to music, having dinner, great conversation and aperitifs.
When I got home at midnight, my phone rings.
“Hi Thomas, it’s Jen. The guy we got to replace you didn’t show up. I was wondering if you would be able to work a shift?”
“No not really. I left and I left for a reason. I despise that place with every fiber of my being.”
“I know but there are 350 people in there and only Brad and Pete are on. Please?”
I hemmed and hawed for a second, and then thought, oh what the hell. I told her not to make a habit out of this though, that this was the last time. I don’t know what possessed me but I went. I liked the two guys I worked with, but the establishment was an east end shithole. Choans getting wasted as they listened to classic rock tribute bands. AC-DC one night, Judas Priest the next night. *shudder*
I got there at about 01:00 and it was going okay, until about 01:45 when the fun really started.
Several women came out, a variety of ages, and they were all very upset.
“That pervert.” “I can’t believe this place.” “You should do something about that guy.”
“What’s the matter? Tell me what’s going on please?”
“Some creep was grabbing at our asses and tits as we walked past.”
“That fucking low life grabbed my mom’s crotch!” one of them said pointing to the oldest woman in the group, who was maybe late fifties, early sixties.
“Can you point him out to me? If he did this to you, he’ll do it to someone else.”
I went inside with two of them and they couldn’t see him. Milled around for a minute, and then headed back outside. On the way out I corralled Pete and had these women tell him what had transpired. They gave Pete a description, and he rolled his eyes and said “Oh shit. I know exactly who you mean.” From the description I had a suspicion as to who it was, and I was proven correct.
A vile, cretinous little troll came in once in a while, by the name of Carlos. He’s utterly despicable when he’s sober and it just goes downhill from there. He is a mean, surly, belligerent drunk. He invariably causes problems, and Pete had violently ejected him on several occasions. Why he’s let back in is beyond me, but anyway.
Brad and Pete are having a confrontation with him at the inner door to the place. Clyde (who ran the company I worked for) is also there. All I can hear this lowlife saying is something about his smokes, that he’s not leaving without his smokes. Brad is telling him, “You just donated your smokes to some other Oakwood retard,” and tells him that he is leaving now.
At this point a youngish man (19, 20) who I had seen with these women saunters over and punches him right in the face, really hard.
“That’s for touching my grandmother, you fucking pig,” and then proceeds to spit on him.
I step in between them and tell the young guy, “That’s enough, we’ll handle this.”
Brad and Pete grab both handles of the scumbucket and start walking him through the lobby. He keeps spluttering that he didn’t do anything. Of course. Someone approaches who I think is just a patron. He proceeds to lay the most almighty punch straight to his face. Pete moves towards this guy, who dekes past Pete and punches him a second time, even harder than the first, so hard in fact that he goes flying and smashes his skullet (balding but still rocking the soccer rocker) right into the wall. Brad picks him up off the floor, twists his right arm in a hold, grabs him by the scruff of the neck, pushes his head down and frog marches him towards the door. Another man approaches and kicks him right in the face! I’m trying to ward off the first irate family member, Pete is keeping the second one at bay, Clyde the third one. When he gets outside, several more guys proceed to start kicking and punching him. The women are trying to restrain them, but to little avail. Several friendlies have come out to help us maintain order. Several former crew members and some other guys who could be relied on to back us up in a pinch.
Brad is trying his darndest to protect this guy from a mob that has tasted blood and wants more. (And I really can’t blame them.) This vermin is just a bloody mess by this point, with probably a broken nose, with what looks like the start of two black eyes, a bloody mouth, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he had just lost what few teeth he had left. So this loser, with a battered and bruised and bloody face, a virtual mob out to kill him, is getting lippy with Brad, and tries to assault him! He takes an ineffectual swing at Brad, who very casually elbows him across the head.
Pete, Clyde and I are trying desperately to stave of yet another mob assault. I’m telling these guys that I understand how they feel, that I can sympathize with their anger, but that this isn’t the place for it. What I really wanted to say was, “Come on guys, how about letting me get in a kick or two.” Just as we block the path of one, another one comes from another angle and gets in a kick to the ribs or a punch to the face. Clyde is telling this loser to get in a cab, but he keeps saying that we’re a bunch of assholes and that he didn’t do anything. Sure, several very convincing sounding women just made up some story to pick on some random stranger, who just happens to be a drunken piece of trash. He doesn’t seem to grasp that he looks like he went about twenty five rounds with Mike Tyson, that about seven or eight sons, grandsons and sons in law of this lady want to brutalize him. What a moron. He keeps on mouthing off to the people who are risking their own safety to protect his worthless life. I was pretty much ready to walk away and say “go to it boys,” when one of our backups whistles from across the street. He has flagged a cab, Clyde and Brad grab him and start hauling him to the cab. I hear the loser saying that he wants to wait for his ride! Pete and I and Al and Mike (two of our good samaritan backups) are walking phalanx trying to ward off further dive bombing attacks. Before he gets to the other side of the street, several more blows have landed, and a few more are attempted. He gets to the cab, and while everyone else is trying to hold back his lynch mob he just stands there, his face looking like something from a horror movie, telling me I have no right to tell him what to do!
“Get in the cab.”
“Get in the cab!”
“GET IN THE CAB!!”
One of our guys grabs him and manhandles him into the cab, although not before slamming his head into the roof first.
The cab pulls away and thirty meters further stops at a red light. This entire mob of guys go storming after it, and reach it. Clyde and I go running after them. By the time we got there, they had three doors open, were trying to drag him out and assaulting him, one guy was in the front seat, landing punches from there. The light changes, the cab takes off, and I don’t know how many of them were still in there, pummeling him. The guys that were standing on the pavement I told to get the hell out of here. I ran back to the bar.
The women were still there, and they thanked me for all I had done, and apologized for what had happened.
“No worries. He is a disgusting little maggot and I completely sympathize with the way your boys felt. To be honest I wanted to get in a couple of good wallops myself, but I can’t really do that. But, you had best get out of here, before the cops show up. Come again any time. You’re welcome here and we’ll look after you, and I can guarantee you he will never set foot in here again.”
I burst into laughter at this point, all the excitement over. As freaky and adrenaline surging as it had been, it was also undeniably funny. Seeing this creep get the stuffing beaten out of him was hysterical. Of all the lowlifes in that place, he deserved it more than others. I know I should have sympathy for him, that he can’t help being a drunk, that his upbringing was really rough, that life hasn’t been kind to him, that society has conspired against him, that he has an illness which makes him an antisocial cretin, blah, blah, blah. I couldn’t care less. Seeing the righteous fury of men reacting to the violation of women near and dear to them was frankly really awesome.
The rest of the night passed without incident. As much as I hope I never come anywhere near this hole again, that incident proved to actually be rather enjoyable.
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