Fighting. At the pool table. Two brothers, one simple, one muscular, both wasted. Appearing next in this drama, a tattoo fiend, head to toe. Both pugilists like dominating the attractive pool table. With their muscular cue actions delivering blows, sweet cuts and hole glory. Bring down a pipeline to beer taps and soon the blood boil is rolling like gasoline prices going through the fucking roof. What goes up must come down, like a fist. Claret lover Isacc Newton imagined it. And where the apple proved that gravity gets you down, a fist smashing on top of a head renders a similar effect. And so, a fight . Someone whistled, as if calling dogs, everyone stopped, quickly we knew it was a fisticuff.
And it was immediately negotiated into a stalemate. The blanket of clam downs prevailed.The twisted brothers routine left, the tat guy, seen before and normally polite, got the benefit of the doubt, although one witness, with an alcoholic pedigree, claimed otherwise. The tat guy was put on on the radar screen for the future.