The Jerk at the Black Angus
By Natalie Bettencourt
We left the Black Angus in Burbank at around midnight because I'd just poured a Tequila Sunrise down the back of the jeans of the jerk at the bar.
The ruby-red grenadine soaked a conspicuous stain down his backside. I was sober enough to realize we needed to get out before the guy fully unleashed. He was spitting ice shards at me, angrily studying my face while I feigned "accident", and you could just see his eyes light up with thoughts of punching me in the mouth while I played innocent.
Rita tugged on my right elbow while the guy was still pondering punching my lights out. We fled away toward the door and the cold night air. The bouncer stopped us because we were in a wicked hurry.
"Leaving so soon, ladies?" he inquired. Rita still had a champaign flute in her hand and he wanted it back.
"Keep that guy away from us!!" yelled Rita, and the bouncer obliged, sensing damsels in distress as we fled the scene.
There was a spirited ruckus at the door, but we didn't stick around to see how much more pissed the guy got after being withheld from getting at me. We ran down First Street to the safety of our parked car a half block away.
I'm sure he figured out I poured the drink down his pants on purpose.