“I said, apologize.”
John’s voice was calm.
Seeing that John didn’t know what was good for him, the bearded man stopped laughing.
He set down his beer mug and slowly stood up.
He was half a head taller than John and must have outweighed him by at least sixty pounds.
As he stood, the back of his knees shoved his chair half a meter backward.
The stench of sweat mixed with alcohol rolled off him, forcing the two nearby girls to take a step back.
“Son of a bitch…”
He leaned in close to John’s face, blowing stale beer and cigarette smoke over him.
Under the dim light, his nostrils looked like two dark pits.
His lips curled back, revealing his gums.
“Damn it…
do you want to get touched too?”
As he spoke, he raised his right hand, fingers splayed, and lunged for John’s chest.
The next second, he went flying.
The execution was actually rather “plain.”
To make his reaction look normal, John had carefully calculated his strength, catching the wrist and twisting it to throw him off balance.
He locked the wrist, wrenched it inward, and simultaneously swept his left foot between the man’s legs.
Digging his shoulder into the man’s armpit, he drove his entire body forward.
*Thud!*
The bearded man’s two-hundred-plus-pound frame went airborne for half a second, tracing a semi-circle in the air before his back slammed directly into the wooden floorboards in the corner.
*Crash!*
The impact knocked over the beer mugs on the table, splashing foam all over his face.
The floorboards groaned and cracked under the weight, sending a splintered shard of wood bowing upward from the seams.
“Joseph, you okay?”
Seeing the bearded man defeated in an instant, his two companions sprang to their feet.
The skinny one grabbed a beer bottle and smashed the bottom against the edge of the table, leaving a jagged, razor-sharp edge of broken glass.
The other pulled a switchblade from his waist, the blade snapping open with a sharp *clack*.
The skinny one gripped the broken bottle, its serrated glass teeth glinting dully in the dim light.
He raised the bottle above his shoulder, aiming straight for John’s face.
“You’re fucking dead!”
The broken bottle thrust forward, closely followed by the switchblade.
One came from the front, the other from the flank.
The angles were well-chosen; they had clearly done this together before.
John didn’t back up.
Backing up would expose the two girls near the bar to the crossfire.
That would cause unnecessary trouble.
Instead, he stepped forward half a pace, letting the broken bottle graze past his ear.
Then, his right hand swept up from below, catching the skinny man’s wrist.
He pressed his thumb hard into the inside of the wrist joint, squeezing inward.
*Snap!*
Instantly, the skinny man’s fingers reflexively splayed open, and the bottle slipped from his grasp.
Guided by his super-perception, John caught the bottle with one hand.
With a flick of his wrist, he flipped the bottle around and jabbed the blunt bottom into the soft hollow where the skinny man’s collarbone met his neck.
*Thump.*
The skinny man stiffened for half a second as if struck by lightning, then his knees buckled and he collapsed to the floor.
Clutching his neck with one hand, his mouth hung open, but no sound came out.
At the exact same moment, the switchblade thrust toward John’s left ribs.
The instant the blade pierced his work shirt and touched his skin—
The blade bent completely out of shape.
As if striking a solid steel plate, the tip buckled, curling back into a tight metal spiral.
The shock of the impact rattled the switchblade’s handle right out of the other thug’s hand, sending it clattering to the floor.
*Shit…
did I expose myself?*
John glanced around.
Realizing no one had noticed, he breathed a massive sigh of relief in his mind.
*Phew…
thank goodness.
No one saw.
I can still save this.*
Meanwhile, the thug stared down at his empty hand, then at the curled, ruined blade on the floor.
When he looked back up at John, all the malice had drained from his eyes.
Replacing it was the primal, blank terror of a brain completely short-circuiting.
“You…”
“Damn it.”
John looked down at the tear in his shirt.
He had to pay for his bartender uniform out of his own pocket.
This was bought with his hard-earned money.
Looks like he’d have to buy another one.
Tom, that cheapskate, would definitely never reimburse him.
The bearded man scrambled up from the floor, half his face smeared with beer foam and dust from the floorboards.
His lip was split, and blood mixed with beer dripped down from his chin.
Struggling to push himself up against the table, his right hand quickly found another bottle.
He wrapped his knuckles around it and swung it up.
But he didn’t dare swing it down.
Because John had casually turned his head and glanced at him.
They were just a pair of ordinary eyes, but there was no anger in them, no fear, no hesitation.
In fact, there was nothing at all.
The bearded man had lived for over thirty years.
He had seen the bloodshot eyes of drunk brawlers, the hysterical frenzy of people getting robbed, and the desperate, explosive rage of men who had been cheated on.
But he had never seen a gaze this terrifying.
The man wasn’t looking at him.
He was weighing him.
Weighing his life.
In those eyes, his life was weighed and measured, and like the spilled beer, the wood splinters on the floor, and the drunk puking his guts out in the corner—
It was nothing but worthless trash.
Very quickly, the bottle slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor.
He didn’t even dare to bend down and pick it up.
“Fuck!”
He took a step back, his spine hitting the wall, his sweaty fingers gripping the edge of the table.
“…You win…
Dammit, I’m not messing with…”
“You.
Apologize to her.”
John simply repeated the command.
His volume didn’t change, and his tone remained flat, but the pressure it exerted on the bearded man was overwhelming.
*Gulp.*
The bearded man’s Adam’s apple bobbed.
Staring into John’s eyes, his lips trembled as he squeezed a few difficult words out of his throat:
“I’m…
I’m sorry.”
“…Get out.”
Hearing John’s impatient dismissal, the bearded man felt as if he had been granted a divine pardon.
He and his two companions scrambled to their feet and fled, scrambling over each other without looking back.
Leaving only the blonde girl standing there, staring blankly at John.
Until her companion whispered beside her.
“Kelly, didn’t you need to use the restroom?”
Only then did she snap out of it as if waking from a dream.
Her face flushed slightly as she clutched her lower stomach and hurried toward the restroom.
Meanwhile, Old Sam was still sitting in the corner, his rear end not having left his chair once throughout the entire ordeal.
He held his glass of dark beer, watching the foam slide down the side, his eyes fixed on John.
John went back to his station and resumed wiping down the tables.
As he worked, he heard Old Sam chuckle.
“Your old man did the same thing…
Twenty-three years ago, right at this very bar.
Some truck driver was causing trouble back then, and your dad threw him straight out the front door.
But he wasn’t doing it to show off.
He did it for your mom, actually.
Back then, she was still Martha Clark, working as a cashier in the grocery store next door.
Your dad shielded her behind him and took on three guys by himself.
After the fight, his left eye was black and blue for a whole week.”
Old Sam took a sip of his beer and looked up at the dim, yellowed chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
“But that driver never showed his face in Mooney again…
Oh, I forgot to mention, your dad was only twenty-one that year.
His arms weren’t even as thick as yours are now.”
He took another swig, then pointed to the slash on John’s shirt.
“Don’t throw that shirt away.
Your mom’s mending looks better than buying a new one.”
John looked down at the tear on his left ribs.
The work shirt had been pierced by the blade, the fabric tearing outward in a starburst pattern.
A few loose threads pulled by the blade hung from the edges.
Then, he pictured a sweet-smelling, lace-trimmed patch full of maternal love.
It brought a sweet warmth to his heart.
Indeed, it was true.
“Yeah…”
“Oh, right.
That son of a bitch didn’t hurt you, did he?
What was up with that knife?”
“Oh, it must’ve been cheap junk.
Quality control issues.”
John tossed the bent switchblade into the trash can.
“No harm done.”