Nut Cracker

When you have walked in dubious circles you realise people are dangerous in different ways and being “hard” is a very broad quality with numerous faces. Hard men come in various shapes and sizes from those with it printed on their brow to those who look inconspicuous and those who have something two inches back from their eyes.

Dog and I where in our usual haunt, the New Inn having a pint on the night as we usually did and not a lot was going on. Carl was a biker, an outlaw although he dressed pretty much casual with no leathers or biking jacket. The end of the bar by the bar hatch was his place. He was the top man of the pub, not that the New Inn needed a top man, it was not known for being ruff although it had it’s moments like any other place. Apart from Carl, the occasional biker popped in to drink with him but not on a regular basis. One of those bikers was Mick.

Carl was quite short but stocky, while Mick was thin and over six foot dressed again in a t-shirt, jeans and sporting brown cowboy boots. On the night they were standing at the bar with a broad, stocky guy with a shaven head in a black leather
jacket; your typical biker outfit. The New Inn was very busy; elbow to elbow in places and un-usually the three of them were standing at the bar opposite the lounge entrance rather than in the corner.

Propped up against the wall seating by the fire exit in the lounge, Carl caught our eye.

“Somethings up”, said Dog out the side of his mouth.

“Yep”, I replied. We both watched from the other side of the room intently. There were no raised voices but there was an agitation in Carl in his body language.

The punch came from nowhere.

It was a bolt of lightening, a fast punch, which landed and turned the guys lights off instantly, he went down like a sack of spuds out of our sight. The pub instantly went silent. Mick did not miss the opportunity and stamped on the guys head, the thud reaching us across the room.

Then they were gone walking briskly out of the pub.

“Jesus Christ!”, said Dog, “Did you see that?”

“Yep”, I replied impassively. There was no shock, surprise or care that someone might have just had his nut cracked open if not worse.

A member of staff descended on the guy to see how badly injured he was and did the best to deal with the situation. A couple of minutes passed and the pub murmured watching events.
Then the guy got up.

“Fucking hell! He has got a boot imprint on his head!”, said Dog. And they bloke had, we could see if from where we were sitting, a great red imprint in the shape of sole. The guy looked to be reassuring the bar staff he was okay and then picked up his pint and started drinking again. The bar staff, deciding not to push it, returned to the other side of the bar and pub returned to it’s normal business.

That was until Carl and Mick re-entered the pub and made straight for the guy at the bar.

“Uh oh. Now it's going to start”. Dog and I watched them intently and so did half the pub, who had spotted their return.

Un-phased the guy turned to greet them, boot print and all and the three carried on talking and drinking at the bar. The rest of the night was eventless.

Little did I know, I would later meet Mick and the shaven head guy up close and have a rather strange conversation with Carl.