A man walks in, shitless, wearing black suit pants and brogues. A silver watch flashes on his wrist.
‘Can I help you sir?’
‘I’m here to fight,’ he says.
‘Fight?’
‘Fight.’
‘Fight who?’
‘Anyone.’
I look around. ‘This is a restaurant, sir.’
‘Alright,’ he says.
‘There’s no one here for you to fight.’
‘You’re here.’
‘I’m not going to fight you.’
‘Well, can you find someone who will?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘She’ll do,’ he says, nodding at the woman nervously edging by him with her young son.
‘I don’t think so,’ I say again.
He punches her. She falls to the ground, out cold. The child starts crying.
‘Good heavens,’ I say. ‘You fight women?’
‘I’ll fight anyone,’ he says, then punches the kid, his crying cut off with a thud.
‘Sir, please stop punching our guests.’
‘Not really the fight I was looking for.’
‘I’m going to have to call the police now,’ I say.
‘Oh. Excellent,’ the man says. ‘They’ll put up a good fight.’
Paddy Dobson
29th April 2021