Of course it would all come down to this. I knew that when a trusted friend unexpectedly handed me his cell phone during the third quarter of a Monday night football game a week back, that there could only be one man on the other end. There is little in life that can surprise a man who keeps a close eye on the migratory habits of large water fowl, as I do. And as sure as the mighty and noble Canadian Goose flies south in the winter and returns to Mankato in the summer, so too would my attorney return from his exile in Denver. I just didn’t know it would come to this.
So there we were, at the Dockside Saloon, sipping Wild Turkey backed by tasty Northwest Microbrews at 10 in the morning, when a gang of heavy tourists walks in. 17, maybe 23 of them, all Samoan. Thick dark sunglasses and ill fitting suits, they seemed to be gangsters of some sort. Degenerates at best. I felt the best bet was to play it cool, to finish our drinks and move on, but as usual, my attorney would have none of that rational talk. Finishing his beer, he looked at me with the twisted eyes of a criminally insane monster, and I knew that our peaceful coexistence with the Samoans was about to be shattered.
“Junior Seau is a fag,” he said, quietly but firmly, to no response. “JUNIOR SEAU IS A FAG!” No mistaking it this time. Those were clearly fighting words. It’s one thing to be offensive, but another thing entirely to insult a cultural hero to the Samoan people. A hostile murmur rippled through the crowd of large tattooed men, before a deathly silence settled over the bar. Well, this is it, I thought to myself. The Dockside Saloon, I was 27.
A smaller, immaculately dressed Samoan stepped forward, a leader perhaps. But my attorney was in no mood for negotiations as he smashed the empty Bud bottle on the smaller man’s head, crumpling him to the floor. Sticky, dark blood gushing from the fantastic lightning bolt shaped gash on the unconscious man’s forehead. Faster than a mongoose assassinates a King Cobra, my attorney pulled a menacing looking .38 Special from some unknown pocket and pointed it toward the remaining 26 men standing. They flexed and grumbled, but made no move forward.
“Let’s go,” he said. Turning to walk out, gun in hand before he looked back and added, “and Troy Polamalu is a goat fucker.” He took another step forward, and hit the juke box before ushering me into the cool late morning air, and a waiting taxi cab.