The Boy

I work as a bouncer for a nearby bar. I have the right physique and mentality for it, after all, with my 6'6" height and 240 pounds of solid muscle, bone and sinew. Very few people dare to stand up to me even when their brains are floating in a sturdy fix of .

The joint I work for is mostly gay grounds, but occasionally the more foolhardy straight kids come a-cruising there just for the hell of it. It's usually because of them that troubles start.

I met the Boy when he and a mixed-sex group of his friends were trying to get in with fake ID's. None of them were old enough to meet the bar's age limit of twenty-three years. The Boy - as I later found out - had just turned twenty himself, and only one of his buddies was over twenty-one.

The kids were denied entry and they started raising a ruckus about it, yelling things that would be best left unsaid, especially in the middle of the gay district. However, before things had a chance to get out of hand, I drifted to the scene from inside the bar, relieving the lad taking the money at the door from his job. I think he was quite grateful for not having to deal with the problematic bunch.

"What seems to be the problem here?" I growled at the group, crossing my arms over my wide, hairy chest. It was leather night at the bar, to top it off, so I didn't have a shirt on. The Boy and his gang had dressed up in leather, alright, but they were fancy clothes, the type that 'Goth people' use. I classified them as punks in my mind, but then again I tend to be a bit behind the times when it comes to fashion.

Some of the less drunk kids in the Boy's group decided that they didn't want any trouble, but the Boy's girlfriend egged him on, clapping her hands whenever he said something they thought was clever. I personally didn't think that calling the bar and all the patrons 'a bunch of faggots' was a very good idea, not with the crowd of tops and daddies that was starting to gather in the entryway behind my back.