Garret, Part 1

It was late at night. I found myself outside of a bar, smoking a cigarette, when I ran into this douchebag I know named Garret.

Before Garret's unwavering perma-scowl could even attempt to form a word, I knew exactly what he was about to say, and why he had even shown up in the first place. 

"Well, well, well. What in the absolute fuck, Garret?" I asked with commanding, sarcastic impatience. 

"Bum a light?" replied Garret, barely. 

Right then, I could've clocked Garret square in his big, round nose. But it was late, and I wasn't in the mood for a fist fight. Plus, I knew what we were in for. It was a different kind of fight that Garret was fixin' for, and maybe I was fixin' for the same.

Now, don't get me wrong. If it was any other night, I wouldn't bat a lazy eye at Garret and his always obnoxious, pot-stirring presence. But this wasn't any other night. And unfortunately for him, he caught me with just enough whiskey in my system to give a shit. So I took the bait.

"Yea, sure. I got a light."

And there, outside of the bar, with the sudden flick of a zippo and two bitter stares, it began.

To be continued...