You can think whatever you want, but I figure he came looking for trouble. I mean, a guy like that doesn't just stroll into a bar called Hog's Heaven expecting to feel at home. Not even in the middle of the day. Sure, at night, the lot out front is lined up with Harleys and there's biker music so loud it comes out the doors and everybody knows what kind of place it, but just because the lot was empty and the neon sign was off, any fool could tell it wasn't Denny's.

Maybe he thought he qualified--I mean, he was riding a bike--only it was one of those two-thousand dollar, off-road mountain-bike contraptions. You know, the kind with peddles! Spoiled rich kids and corporate yah-hoos buy them so they can pretend to be outdoorsmen. You see them peddling down bike trails and back roads on weekends, with their cellphones and their fanny packs full of American Express Platinum Cards. But that just made it worse--a bicycle's like an insult to a man that rides a hog.

It didn't help that he was dressed like a total yuppie scum-sucking parasite, either. I mean, he had on tights--tights! They were made out of spandex or Lycra or something even sissier, so snug you could see the dimples in his butt cheeks, not to mention the tip of his fucking dick--which I could have gone without seeing--ever! His sneakers were freaky too; they didn't have any laces. And that was all, nothing else: no shirt nor socks nor anything. It isn't that we have a dress code at the Heaven, per se--I was behind the bar and I don't even own a shirt--but at least most of our clientele are built for it!

This guy's body was just what you'd expect, only more so--broad shoulders and muscular arms and a chest so tight you could bounce a dime off either tit. He had washboard abs like all those faggot models you see in underwear ads, and big strong legs with tendons like steel cables running down them. His back was shaped like a giant V. I figure he spent every morning in the gym, when he wasn't out riding his stupid bike, pumping iron and blowing kisses to himself in the mirror.

His face was also what you might see in a fashion magazine: real pretty--too pretty, in fact, to belong to a decent guy. His eyes were blue or hazel--bright--and his brown hair was cut short--real conservative. He looked like your average all-American, apple-pie-eating, boy-next-door good-guy fuckhead, even down to his square chin, which is really the only point I'll grant in his favor--it looked manly enough, with a handsome cleft in it like a movie star. He was clean-shaven, as you might expect, which is bad enough in itself but which he made all the worse by going around with a faint five o'clock shadow. I hate guys who do that; it's like they're trying to show off.

And really, he didn't need to prove that he could grow hair: his chest was covered with it. And not just short curls like you see on most guys; this freak had long, thick strands of light brown hair that started just below his neckline, stretched out across his chest and then spread down over his stomach and kept going, as far as I could tell, right down to his crotch. Even though he was lathered up in a pretty good sheen of sweat, it wasn't plastered to his skin either--that's how thick it was! I mean, it wasn't like he was an ape--as a matter of fact he didn't have that much hair on his arms, just an average amount, and none at all on his back or shoulders--but he had one of the hairiest chests I've ever seen. I think he must have used shampoo on it.

He strolled in and stopped a few feet through the door, glancing around. The place was empty--absolutely except for me--and I was down at the other end of the bar rubbing a dirty towel around inside a wet glass. He didn't look surprised or relieved or happy or disappointed by what he found, until he caught sight of me, at which point his lips tightened. He continued to stand there another few seconds just looking, and I just looked back.

"You open?"

That was strike one; there was a sign in the window that said in big black letters: 'OPEN.' So I asked him: "You lost?"

He had his hands on his hips and was standing there breathing--you could tell because it made the ridges in his stomach ripple--but my question almost caused him to smile. He started down toward my end of the bar. "I'm on my way over to Madison." I don't know why he thought I'd care, but he told me: "On my bike. That's twenty-seven miles."

Wow, I thought. "You better get moving then, if you want to make it before dark."

He shrugged and twisted his lips like he was too damned cool to worry. "I figure I have time. Sure, it's mostly up hill, but I can handle that." He stopped to face me across the bar. "Is that your Harley out front?"

I nodded. "Yeah. She can handle the hills too."

He twisted his lips up some more. "But where's the fun in that?" He inclined his head toward me, shifting his eyes down to gaze at my midriff. "You look like you could use the exercise."

As I said, I wasn't wearing any shirt, and, in addition, my Levi jacket was hanging open. Still, I could have been in a double-knit sweater and he would have spotted my gut--it's one of my most prominent features. I've been working on it for years, and I'm proud to say it's almost one-hundred percent beer-belly. It droops over my belt nearly an inch. Very sexy.

Anyway, that was strike two. "How about I exercise on your face?"

"I'm not looking for trouble." He smiled and showed me his palm when he said that, but his tone made it clear that he was doing me a favor. "Just give me an Evian."

"All right," I said, putting down the glass and towel. "That's it." I didn't bother going down to the gate, I just put both hands on the bar and hoisted my weight up and over. He stepped back but didn't look too shocked to find me coming at him. We were about the same height, but I was in my boot heels. I weighed a few pounds more probably--I'm two-ten and I figure he was only about one-ninety- five--but otherwise, our ages seemed like the one major difference between us. I was old enough to be his daddy. It isn't that I'm an old man, mind you, but at forty-nine, I'm certainly capable of having offspring approaching thirty. I started young, you see.

Physically we were pretty much opposites. I'm not overburdened with a bunch of showy muscles, because I don't need them to prove how tough I am. I'm husky and built square. My head's bald because I started shaving it a few years back when my hair started turning gray. For some reason, I wear a mustache and beard anyway--even though they're both the color of steel. I shave my chest, too, but only because I have a huge tattoo across it--a fire- breathing dragon. My nipples weren't anything like his--mine are big and gnarled, and each has a stout finger of knotted flesh poking out of the center of it.

"Put 'em up," I said, lifting my fists.

He did, and his expression said he was ready to fight, so I started things off by taking a swing at his face. I wasn't expecting much, but I didn't exactly waste my time either; I took aim and put some power into my punch. He jerked out of the way allowing my fist to sail right by his chin, and came back at me with a kick that landed squarely on my belly. I grunted, but mostly because that pissed me off. What kind of guy puts up his fists like he's going to fight fair and then pulls that karate shit? I swung back at him with my left fist, and he dodged that too, kicking me with his other leg--his left, this time--directly below the ribs on my right side. Then he socked me hard on the cheek, and I found myself leaning sideways. He moved in and sunk his left fist into my gut, simultaneously chopping down on the side of my head with his right forearm.

I would have gone down except for one thing: those Goddamned tights he was wearing. I mean, I was stung--my belly, my ear--the pretty fucker was fast and sharp. But then as I was looking down, scoping out a piece of floor on which to drop my carcass, I caught sight of his fucking dick--and by that I mean just the tip of it--poking against the fabric of his tights. I rallied, rearing up and charging forward and hoisting my knee right up into his balls.

The confidence that had begun to color his features faded as the blood drained out of his face. He moaned, his hands moving toward his crotch, and I used my right fist to give him an uppercut. That snapped his head up, but we were too close. I pulled back, swinging my left arm in a wide roundhouse that caught him dead on the left cheek. His head turned so far to the right he looked like he wanted to see what was behind him.

He shot over and grabbed hold of the bar. I went after him reaching out to grab hold of his shoulders. He stepped out of the way, turning and coming at my face with his left fist. I blocked that with my forearm and fed him another left of my own, right on the lips. That did the trick; the left side of his upper lip split open in a spurt of crimson. First blood!

He wasn't done yet, though. He fell back a step and I threw a right cross which he ducked. His left cross, coming in immediate response, tagged my chin. I was jolted, but didn't fall back a reciprocal step. He decided to revert to kicks, aiming his right shin at that tender spot below my ribs on my left side this time. He hit home, but I managed to trap his leg against my side with my left arm. I then swung my right arm low, plowing my fist into his crotch.

You might decide at this point that I was cheating--having given the asshole two low-blows in such quick succession when he hadn't so much as even tried to pull my hair (not that I have any for him to pull!)--but this wasn't Madison Square Garden and we weren't professional boxers. Check out a biker bar some Friday night; you'll see that actually I was giving the prick a break.

Anyway, the single leg that was supporting his weight buckled at the knee, but with me holding his other one and the both of us right up against the bar, he managed not to fall. Still, I had pretty much taken total control. I dropped his leg and reached out and grabbed a big fistful of his hair with my right hand. Pulling his head forward and down, I trapped it under my right arm--what we used to call a headlock back on the school yard. He fumbled around with his hands and finally settled on grabbing my wrist. But he couldn't pry my arm loose; I had him good and tight.

With him in the headlock, I marched over to the toilets and pushed through the door marked: 'Hogs.' There were two stalls, and I shoved open the first one. There was nothing special about it, so I moved on to the second. That was more like what I was looking for: piss-gold water with one of the six-inch turds I'd dropped a few hours earlier still floating in it.

Pretty boy must have deduced what I was planning, because all of a sudden he was fighting me again. He applied his knee to the back of one of mine and managed to make me stagger. That allowed him to squirm out of the headlock. But then he did the stupidest thing I ever saw. I guess because it was such close quarters in those stalls, he decided he couldn't get enough power into a punch. Or maybe, he was feeling fancy. I don't know. Maybe again he was just a pathetic loser--I mean, he clearly thought he knew how to fight, but the way things were shaping up, it looked like he really didn't have a clue. Whatever the reasoning, he decided to use a head-butt.

Needless to say, that took the fight right back out of him. He rocked up onto his toes while his whole body kind of swayed in all sorts of directions at the same time and his eyeballs tried to look at each other. I kneed him in the nuts again--half to hurt him and half just to be mean--but mainly to show him what a real man does when there ain't enough room to throw a punch. He was so far gone that he didn't do more than grunt.

I took another fistful of his hair and shoved him down onto his knees in front of the commode. From there, it was an easy trick to get his face down into the water. I was thinking I'd hold him there just a minute or so--I wasn't trying to drown him--and he probably wouldn't have even tasted the piss if he'd held his breath. But the second he broke the surface, he started screaming. I mean, I'll give him credit, it wasn't woman-screaming, but it wasn't just yelling or hollering either. It was screaming like a man does when he's totally stripped of his dignity and his spirit is crying out in disgust. Needless to say, it made me want to stop and listen.

I held him there until he was out of wind, and then jerked his head back up, sending piss-spray in all directions. He drew in a big breath through his nose and mouth, and then surprised me again by still having the wherewithal to swing his elbow back up between my thighs.

There, finally for all of you who thought I was the dirty fighter!

I stumbled back out of the stall holding both hands over my crotch. Despite the fact that I had been repeatedly assaulting his family jewels all along, that was only the first time he'd been able to return the favor. As a result, it only took me a second to recover, but that was all the time he needed to turn around. He saw me coming back and slammed the stall door right in my face. I staggered back again, this time, holding my head; his skull might not have been as hard as mine, but that stall door sure was! When it swung back open, he came flying out with a well-aimed kick that caught me square on the belly. I grunted kind of like he'd done the last time I'd kneed him in the nuts and lowered my hands off my face. He grabbed me by the back of the neck and turned me around.

Opposite the stalls, there is a pair of sinks with a long mirror mounted on the wall above them. He steered my head right toward the mirror, aiming me so that the top of my forehead would make the initial impact. Fortunately, I was able to hoist one of my boots and lodge the heel on the edge of a sink. That stopped my forward momentum cold. Before he even had time to figure how I'd managed the trick, I was performing my own: I grabbed him by the hair and pushed his forehead into the mirror. The glass splintered and one long, horizontal crack appeared from end to end, but it didn't fly off the wall. That was okay, however, because I was satisfied with the fuckhead's reaction. He screamed again, and this time it sounded a lot more like the cause might be physical. I let him go, and he stood straight up, staring right into the mirror. I didn't blame him, because the impact had opened a pretty gash across his pretty forehead. I thought, yum-yum, more blood.

We both took a good look.

There was a definite slant to the way things were stacking up. I mean I was pretty much just warming up and he was already bleeding from a busted lip and a sliced forehead. His breathing was coming pretty hard too: besides seeing it now, I could also hear it. Me, I didn't even feel winded. So much for fucking bicycling and aerobic exercise!

"You're one tough son-of-a-bitch." His voice was raggedy, and he held on to one of the sinks with both hands, supporting himself while he sucked wind. I didn't have anything to say to him, so just responded by spitting a gooey snot-loogie right between his eyes. He came off the sink with a left cross aimed right in the middle of my face. I blocked that, but his momentum carried him right into me and we tumbled over onto the tiles.

I managed to turn so that we shared the impact, landing on our sides. We wrestled around a minute--he was so pissed off due to my spitting in his face that I couldn't immediately get the upper hand--but finally my trusty knee found its way back up into his trusty nuts and I pushed him over onto his back. I knelt straddle his chest, pinning his arms with my knees, and grabbed another handful of his hair in my left fist. I applied my right fist full- force to the side of his face. His whole body jerked, spasming like someone had jolted him with a cattle-prod, which I really liked the feel of, so I hit him again. He bucked again, so I plowed into him a third time. That time he only twitched, so I paused a minute to see if he was still with me.

Another cut had appeared, this one in his left eyebrow, and the whole left side of his face was glowing bright red. The eye itself was bloody, but I couldn't tell if I had managed to injure it, or if the blood had just dripped down from above. When I let go of his hair, his head rolled sideways on the tile floor but the only sound he made was blowing bubbles in the blood coating his lips. I slapped him a couple of times, but that just made his head move back and forth and his eyes blink.

I stood up and he continued to lay there, sort of writhing but in slow motion. His eyes were focused on some spot on the ceiling, and I noticed that even though he kept turning his head from side to side, he also kept his gaze directed at that spot. I picked up my right boot, and stomped down about as hard as I could on his face--being doubly rewarded. First, it made a wet crunching sound and second, he jerked all over like that first time I'd plugged him when I'd had him pinned to the floor.

For some reason, I didn't keep stomping him to see how long he'd continue to buck. Maybe it was because I didn't want to get the floor any more bloody than it already was. Whatever, I stood there admiring him a while and then took off my Levi jacket and wrapped it around his head. Then I grabbed hold of his legs and dragged him out through the bar to the back door. He was conscious all the while--besides seeing and hearing him breathe, I could see his hands clawing slowly at the air--but he was completely helpless. I had totally beat the shit out of the useless fuck.

I hauled him out onto the back porch and pushed him down the steps with my boot. It was only about three feet, but he rolled down and then sprawled in the dirt with his arms and legs stretched out. I climbed down and untied my jacket, cussing when I saw that he had bled all over the inside. I don't know why I was so surprised--the reason I'd put it there was to keep the blood from streaking up the floor in the bar--but it pissed me off all the same. His eyes had both rolled way up like they wanted to see what was making his head hurt so bad, but they rolled down and focused on me and then his lips started moving like he was trying to talk. I didn't care, and let him know by leaning over him and dropping another loogie in his face, then I threw my jacket in the trash and went back inside the bar.

I grabbed a towel and rubbed it over my chest because, believe it or not, I had actually broken a slight sweat. Of course, I wasn't nearly as bad off as the other guy, if you know what I mean--in fact, I was feeling kind of invigorated, like maybe I should start every shift by beating the shit out of a fucker half my age.

I went out front and brought his bike inside and trashed it--totally--which didn't amount to much more than stomping the spokes out because the bike was a hell of a lot tougher than its owner had been. There was a packet mounted on the shaft under the seat, and inside I found a wallet, a pretty fucking expensive wristwatch, a prescription bottle with a few pills in it, and what looked like a high school class ring. I looked in the wallet and found two- hundred and seventy dollars--cash!--which immediately went into my own hip pocket. Wanting to know what kind of fucking moron would ride around with so much money on him, I looked at his driver's license. Chadwick Harding was his name--which is about what you'd expect--and his weight and age I had pretty much guessed right. Also, as I'd assumed, there were two or three credit cards.

Finders being keepers, I put all the booty up onto the bar and carried the remains of the bike out onto the back porch. I was going to toss it onto the remains of its fucking owner, but he was gone. I looked over at the woods that ran along the back of the lot, but didn't see any sign of him. Of course, about ten feet into the woods, the ground sloped pretty steeply down into a creek bed, so he could have found his way there. I tossed the wrecked bicycle out anyway and went back to washing dishes.