It was a rough week.

What reason is there for such a lie to gain access to a bar?

You could bribe someone at a liquor store for less than the amount of the cheapest forged ID. 

Nobody would dare try and strike you down for walking through the doorway. No questions that need answers. No trivial details to remember. No made up birthdates. No missing names or places. No need for a certain dress.

Just go to the liquor store. And go home. Or a friend's house. And if you don't have friends, take a walk in the park. Go watch a movie. Buy ice cream. See a concert. Play a sport.

Do any of these activities away from me. 

This is a warning and I could not be more clear. If you intend to deceive me when I'm wearing my black gloves - you better just hand me $20 and run away.

I don't care about your feelings. Your bank account. Your dropped names.

I care even less about your emotional status. Your history or future. I have no interest in listening to further discussions about who you're with or why you did what you did. I am not your therapist.

And I know none of the intended will see this. Those who I have caught don't later become friends. It's not a cool story. Not something we'll laugh about later.  

So spread the word. My number is 176. Test me and you will fail. 

Take Friday's foursome from up top. Two South Carolina IDs and two fake Michigan IDs. 

I asked the two girls from S.C., "What are the odds both of you are from South Carolina?" 

"Um ... 100 percent," said the first girl. "That's how we know each other," said the second.

All it took was one Google search to sort it. You may have bought an ID passable to a portable scanner but you can't get one good enough to defeat the powers of the Internet. 

As for the two Michigan fakers. Learn to let it go.

A Google search was all it took to take care of ID No. 1. A Facebook search handled ID No. 2.

Words to the wise, no matter how much you yell and scream at me. Or try to enlist others in your ill-perceived plight, I will find a way to figure out the truth. 

The Google search revealed an online bio from a college's sports roster. Facebook revealed that not only was the subject of ID No. 2 underage, but also friends with the subject of ID No 1.

Check and mate, mates.

I noticed his pants were too baggy when he walked into the bar five hours prior to escorting him out, by force. 

You don't wear those pants in a bar. You might have the boots. And the attitude.

But never the pants.

The military frowns on that sort of thing. 

Fights hardly ever evolve as you see them on screen. Punches never land as crisp while kicks look more brutal. Daredevil gets it right. It's exhausting. Adrenaline wears off and you know a crash is imminent.

I do not believe the person who tried to take on the world, switching from passivity to brute force, was a member of the military. The Army Combat Uniform (ACU) he was wearing may have belonged to a family member, but not him. Surplus, not survival. There's no reason for it.

There's no reason to create that large of a lie without one shred of evidence to back it up at the first instance of light questioning.

Where a correct answer gets a handshake.

And a wrong answer gets you sent to the hospital.

It is not unconstitutional to dress as a serviceman while not in the military. It is, however, illegal to do so while attempting to pursue financial gain. I do not know if he violated the Stolen Valor Act of 2013, but he certainly knew he had done something equally as bad when he was asked to leave.

The good news was that I didn't get punched in the face this time. I was merely walking him out when he decided to go dead weight and fall to the floor.

A shock, sure, but I was able to prop him back up and start walking with him again. He was not a small man, although not big enough, and not sober enough, to put up a full fight.

He was 6-foot-3 and approximately 200 pounds. But that's a lot of dead weight to carry, even when you are expecting it a second time.

His body went slack again midway through the bar. The Impostor then grabbed my left knee and twisted. The bigger they are so on and so forth. I started to tumble while he twisted and I rolled underneath a table.

Luckily I have friends. Face, as I've stated before, was the one who tipped me off to the Impostor. Face came around the bar and pinned the Impostor while Peanut, another former service member, came to my aid from the door. Together they got me free and we all pushed the Impostor outside of the building. 

If only it ended there.

The Impostor ran into two more formidable, and ready-to-go foes outside. The Impostor chose the wrong bar. Both men did not take kindly to someone tarnishing their employer's reputation, and they made him feel it. Others also made him feel it.

Authority defended himself. Peanut defended the gates. I defended the gawkers and passers-by. Blood spewed from open wounds. Onto hands, clothing - and the pavement.

It took three buckets of soapy water and some elbow grease to wash the red specks away.

The Impostor wrestled with policemen, EMTs, the restraints on his gurney. Still thrashing his head when he had nothing left to flail. 

And in less than 90 minutes the bar had turned over. The rain started to fall. Hard.

Washing away the preceding hours as if nothing ever happened. 

But it did happen. Shirts had to be disposed of. Soaked rags wiped the blood from arms, hands and legs. Bruises, aches and pains took root.

 All because of one man's mendacity.

This was not a good week. But a few weeks ago it was better. And in another two it will be better still.

Let's say you and I end on a good note. Enjoy some views of Lake Michigan on a beautiful, bright summer Sunday afternoon.

Where the only people lying are those who dig themselves into the sand, listening to the waves crash against the shore. Those who let their minds open like a long-exposure lens, painting memories in abstruse color and radiant light.

Only to be reviewed in the mind when the world falls apart and you find yourself underneath a plastic table amidst a sea of strangers.