As he exited the pub he was met by a horrifying sight. Fifty man-boys dressed in shirts of baby blue and pink, cradling half-empty bottles of Dom and Cristal, leering at him as if he were wearing a skirt short enough to show off a smooth camel toe. These effeminate pansies were obviously looking for trouble, and since his innate masculinity was anathema to their state of self-denial, confusing bromance with latent homosexuality, the scent violence started crackling like ozone in the air. Fifty cell phones turned on the same song, heavy with bass, drum machine and bad vocals, further incensing our brave hero.
With a wordless cry of pent-up rage, he charged at them, bowling over an even dozen as he plowed through their ranks. They tried to grab him, but all that stuck was their expensive designer colognes. He spun around and lashed out with a heavy fist, breaking the first man-made nose of the evening. He managed a second swing before a bottle worth more than his own shoes struck him on the shoulder. He threw himself to the ground and pulled off a police roll that belied his girth, got on his feet and smashed two heads together.
Suddenly he realized he had been careless and gotten himself surrounded. Five or six featherweights jumped on him, trying to bear him down, but he stood easily and with a careless shrug he sent them flying into their comrades. About half of them were left, and there was fear in their eyes until their pathetic anthem started another chorus. Hefting their bottles they charged en masse. But our hero, his braided beard and flowing hair turning red as blood, stood his ground. As they all swung at him simultaneously, he did an elegant back-flip, jumping out of reach. When he turned, he saw a heap og two dozen queers with broken skulls.
Our hero smirked and went for another beer.
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