So there I am, staring Death in the face, him and all his glory. It's not that mythological skull draped in the pitch-black cloth, it's the gun that is pressed on your skin that covers the vital organ that keeps you alive. Adrenaline pulses through your body, and you pray that the one holding your life, the gun, Death, will have mercy and backfire. The gun jamming in the hand of your enemy, or that some hero will whisk their way in and slap the gun to the floor.
  Yet you ask, why do I have a gun pointed at me in the first place? Well that is a difficult question to answer. Let's just say a strange, and horrid chain of events occurred that no one should be proud of.
  I am in a bar. Yeah, an adolescent in a bar, another question that really, really shouldn't be answered but will be for those who can't see the logic I don't have. The setting is the bar, the acrid smell of urine and bile from drunkards of now and decades ago. Me, a young, fit, muscular boy who could be the all-star jock of the school but won't lower myself to be in such a place, yet I'm in a bar with no guardian in sight, what-so-ever. Being a young and developing male that has extra testosterone causing the desire for rough physical contact, other than under the sheets, I seek out a sparring partner in the middle of the night. Where else can you find aggravated, ready-to-beat-someone-down male? I sit at the counter and order some grub to shovel down as I use myself as bait.
  A heavy set, balding, man is next to me and is loathing my up beat, spry self enjoying food while women curiously look at me to double check my age. I, myself, am loving every second of this and waiting for a fist to fly. The man demands more alcohol, which is the count down to his soon to come outburst. I can feel the hate he has towards me and I can't stop smiling. I can feel his breaking point nearing to its end, going like a car crash being watched from your apartment nearby. You in your cozy room, seeing this travesty unfold from your window that's located three stories or higher.
  I eat calmly having that smug look on my face, and he boiled till the steam blew out into the form of his white knuckled fist pressing against my handsome face. I'm surprised he even had it in him to punch, but I guess it was the alcohol killing those minuscule brain cells of his. I was forced out of my high chair, the food that I had in my mouth started to escape and spray out. Everything was in slow motion, people jumping back, yelping, the bartender backing away but his eyes trying to look over the counter as I fall out of view. The man who punched me froze, first startled that he even touched me, but he took in the feeling of power. Thanks to mind-altering beer that gave him the confidence he needed to believe he could defeat me. Oh how he was so wrong and I love it when they're wrong.
  I jump to my feet, spectators that were in seats come over forming the human fighting ring. I smiled even through my blood-covered teeth, crimson filling my mouth but I attacked. It wasn't just an assault any more. Punching, throwing, kicking, grabbing and blood were in the tossing of this salad of physical contact.
  Now making a short story even shorter, I won. Through all of it I never got a good look at his face, but I didn't care at the time because I was the victor, so I left the bar. I walked home in the middle of the night, with the dim lighting of the streetlights. I never knew where the man went after the fight, I just thought he ditched the place so he wouldn't get arrested, but I would soon find out where he did go.