The pub I work at caters to a laid-back, family crowd. It is a place to relax, share a beer or three with friends, converse, catch up, nibble on a basket of fish and chips...in other words, HEAVEN, and the purest definition of a true Irish pub.
Last night, things shifted.
Business wasn't too terribly insane (thank the LAWD - the last 2 months, every shift has been K R A Z Y), so I wasn't running around like a maniac for once, when the pub owner - in having dinner with her family - approached me, speaking in sotto vocé:
"Don't pour the guy at the end of the bar another beer. I think he's wasted."
I peer across the bar and see a 30-something hipster watching the basketball game, looking not at all drunk. I thank her and go back to my bid-nezz ( I promise to never again type that word) when I hear my co worker say to said customer, "I need an I.D. or credit card to give you darts."
We have 2 traditional, cork dartboards, and a handful of very nice darts we loan out. All ya gotta do is give us something you will miss if you "accidentally" walk off with them. Yeah, as "accidental" as reaching over to brush a woman's hair out of her eyes and dragging a pinkie on her boob.
Uhhh...so I've heard.
I dash off to pour some beers and return to the end of the bar to see that the patron has EVERY CARD FROM HIS WALLET LINED UP ON THE BAR. He waddles over to the dartboards. I deliver said beers. I return to see him hucking the darts with every ounce of energy he has left in his buzzed carcass at the boards, missing every time.
Okay, rummy, it's time to go, think I.
The owner is now on her feet (all 5'2" of her) with fire in her eyes.
"Want me to...?" I start.
Her nostrils flair. "Oh no. I've got this," she growls, with a look I pray to never be on the receiving end of. Seriously. I actually felt like *I* was in trouble for a second.
I continue pouring and delivering beers and see her talking with Boozy O'Whiskey in a low, stern voice. Then I hear the front door slam. The owner's husband looks at me and says, "He tried to go through the door."
More beers poured, more dropping off ensues. Then, I see the pub owner marching with wicked intent to the front door, with a look that can only be summed up with the word "FUCKINGPISSEDOFF" (a word I just invented, FYI. Don't look it up on Wikipedia).
As it turns out, Slurry Zambuca marched out front, declaring he was being 86'ed for "beeeinggg ruley", and decided to pet a dog that was tethered to a bike rack. And, as it also turns out, was BITTEN IN THE FACE BY THE DOG.
I mean, how drunk do you have to be to GET BITTEN IN THE FACE BY A DOG? Unreal.
The evening ended with the most drunken patch of people I've yet dealt with playing darts and not catching on to the fact that the lights were all up and the music had stopped and I was yelling, "We're closed! Have a good night!" Know what cures that?
A little band called Tesla at full-volume.