If you came here looking for basketball recaps or whatever Bill Walton said, you’ll be disappointed. If you came here to find out what happens when you piss off a 6-foot-2, 300 pound marine whose down time resembles Dwayne Johnson’s, you’re in the right place.

I introduced Maui in the last story, a new hire with the gift of quick comebacks.

And now I get to write about how quickly his jaw can snap shut.

Good or bad, that’s up for you to decide.

But, just so we’re clear, I think it’s a good story. Because what happened is something I’ve never seen before, which is saying something when you’ve been in the security game since you were 17 years old.

Setting the Stage

Another new hire to be nicknamed later was MOVING. For now, I’m going to call him the Health Inspector because that’s who I thought he was when he showed up to the interview. I caught a glimpse of him while walking out of the bar — average height, stocky-yet-capable build, button down striped shirt tucked into khaki slacks. Full disclosure, I wore cargo shorts and a Summerfest tee shirt to my “interview.” Heavy quotes on that word because unbeknownst to me I already got the job because not many people applied, and I was the only one who bothered to show up.

So, the Health Inspector is doing what he does, spotting obvious health risks in the bar, like a guy grabbing butts. Cute when cartoon Tina Belcher sings about it, sexual assault when it happens in real life.

The HI is getting this guy out fast. He looks like a warehouse worker tossing out the last of the J Crew mannequins from an abandoned department store. Our perp is then tossed down by a local food cart. HI walks back in calmly because everyone gets the gist of what happened. From a security standpoint, you know it was something pretty bad that this guy did to deserve the fastidious, Swayzean exit.

Round 1

Like every good early-season tournament, there’s an opening round to determine who the heavy hitters will be. I was already dealing with a pinballer who wanted to push the boundaries of the gateway while I saw the harasser get up from his curb placement and walk toward Maui.

Now, our harasser was no slouch. Standing 6-3 and 185 pounds, he would be an intimidating figure to a smaller woman. He also seems like the guy who did this kind of thing before with little reason left for him not to do it again.

But we got some weight on our side, so walking up to Maui and putting your hand on his throat isn’t a smart move.

I don’t think people realize how quick fights last when there’s a natural weight imbalance. Before fighting styles get thrown around, if you have 100 pounds on someone, it is unfair.

That’s why I never really got why people like to watch non-heavyweight boxing. Who has the time for 12 rounds? I barely want to fight for 12 seconds, which is also really long for a bar fight. Well, an outisde-of-the-bar fight.

Back to Maui’s throat. It was well protected. It was a chilly night, after all, and between the heavy coat layer and the shemagh, Maui probably didn’t feel the harasser’s hands attempting to clench. No, what Maui felt was the standard flight or flight response. Or rather, Maui was going to fight, and our rude glute dude was going for a flight, again.

Muscles are required.

It was the bike rack this time, away from our beloved food cart. Maui expressed his love of painful activities in stunning detail, up close with a whisper.

For a drunk man, there’s no ability to stay down. A drunk man, unless he blacks out, always feel he can make the situation better. Or if he can’t make it better, he’ll try to fight his way out of a brawl he has no chance in winning, if only for some undeserved sympathy from strangers.

Intelligence not expected.

Round 2

Admittedly. the setup to this fight is a lot longer and more interesting than the final outcome. My drunkard from the first round eventually stumbles off, and Maui’s guy is…

Wait, what?

No.

No, no, no.

Stop.

Just.

What?

Is that a hand?

It’s a hand.

A left hand, jutting straight out like a, well, a mannequin hand. And it's heading toward imminent danger.

Maui’s mouth.

The hand enters. (That’s the something I’ve never seen before)

And CHOMP.

And TURN.

And SPIT.

The coat came off. Face joined in. I joined in. There was no stopping this beatdown. Roadhouse rules applied.

Be nice, until it's time not to be.

Nice exited the tournament in Round 1.

Needless to say our perp ended up on the ground again. Not by the bike rack or the street lamp, or our beloved food cart. But the cold, hard street.

Maui proudly exclaims, “I am a weapon! I was built for WAR,” and laughs as others look upon the aftermath, another human’s blood dripping from his mouth.

Post Game

Was he unconscious? Did this final beat down send him to the disabled list? Nope.

He got up again.

At this point, I had enough of this dude. It wasn’t my fight, but it was my patience on the line. I put a hand on his chest and walked him down the block and around the corner, where I made him sit on the curb to think about what he’s done. He said he didn’t do anything wrong, and “wasn’t even the guy.” He showed me his hand to sway my reasoning that someone drew blood. He swore his right hand to God he wasn’t the guy.

I’m no theologian, but if his right hand belonged to God, then his left sure as hell was Maui’s.

He reluctantly took his battered hand from his jeans pocket and the final defeat crept into his present state.

Bet that hand won’t be feeling up anything anytime soon.