The Rich Kid
"I'll dominate you!" the drunk kid screamed from the sidewalk at us. His pink-shirted brother held him back, while he tried to make a run at myself and the other guy working the door. He did his best most most muscular pose, much like this, which ended up just making all of us laugh, seeing as he was a very unintimidating 6 foot, 175 lbs.
"It's true," said pink shirt, turning around. "He would dominate all of you motherfuckers." He pointed at us, as if to solidify his point.
With that, pink shirt turned and pushed his angry brother towards the street and to a waiting cab while he continued to rant and rave, making half-hearted attempts to come back towards us.
Another floor staff guy who came out to check out the ruckus decided to bid them goodbye and waved. Of course, this only irritated the situation and they both made their way back to all of us, which by this time was, by my count, 10 combined bar employees. Their odds of coming out on top of this one wasn't very good.
Back and forth we went. Them yelling and us laughing. Over and over. We were trapped in a never ending circular hell on the sidewalks of downtown Athens at 2am surrounded by drunken chaos, the target of some misguided intoxicated ranting and raving that started from a monumentally trivial matter.
It had all began because it was after 2am and we were closed. The pink shirted frat boy brother had wanted to come inside. His excuses went back and forth. His girlfriend was a bartender, but he didn't know her name. He gave his credit card to "some guy" and he was inside spending money on his card. He needed to close his tab. He tried to take a run at the doorguy to make it in, when we forcefully reminded him, in no uncertain terms, that the answer was no and it wasn't changing. And so pink shirts brother came heroically to his rescue.
And so we found ourselves squaring off with two brothers who, for all intents and purposes, wanted to fight us and hurt us. Over a credit card.
"I've got more money on that card than you'll make in your life!" he screamed. He gave us the middle finger. He called us assholes. He told us to go fuck ourselves. And yet we stood there, watching and waiting.
"You think you're a big tough bouncer, huh? You make $5 an hour! You're nothing. I've got more money than you'll ever see. Ever!"
We had heard it all before. Nothing new. Nothing creative. Nothing significant enough to even make us raise an eyebrow. These threats and promises were old, tired, and worn out, heard by all of us more times in the past to count. We had taken these threats before, considered them, and found them lacking in more ways than one. It was the drunken ranting of a spoiled little rich college kid, unaccustomed to not getting what he wants, when he wants it.
And so their night ended in handcuffs, surrounded by police officers.
Oh, and did I mention that his card wasn't even in the bar? Never was.