Who Kissed Charlie Fine?

Chapter 3

"I AM right! You hear that, Baseballs?"

The giant's paw easily covered Martin's face as he shoved him off his seat. Had he not been so enraged he might have been impressed by Martin's most remarkable ability - to completely topple over without spilling a drop of beer. Ever.

Charlie stepped in.

"I'm very sorry. My friend is clearly drunk and you seem, well, intolerant so why don't we just move down the bar and leave you in peace?"

"What did you call me?" the giant demanded, clenching his fists and widening his shoulders as he stood.

"Aileen, helleww?" Martin said, rolling his eyes and sipping his beer as he was once again upright.

"Let's go. You and me. Outside. Now!"

Charlie intervened again. "Sure. This singing drunk has got to be stopped and violence is the only way to do it."

"Like that tuba player takin' the piss out of them Neo Nazi rallies by playin' a fart march," Martin agreed making the opposite point.

"Martin," Charlie warned.

"I could literally watch those videos all day!"

"Yes me too. Now shut up."

"You calling me a Nazi now?" the giant said, grinding his jaw.

"Not at all," Charlie said. "While it's true all Nazis are assholes, not all assholes are Nazis. If they were I'd probably spreche besser Deutsch."

The giant threw a punch which Charlie deftly dodged. It stunned Martin whose sinus deflated with a bicycle horn beek as he staggered backwards then forwards, beer still level. Next the giant aimed a punch at Charlie's face, but Charlie was able to jam his arm, driving his own fist into his attacker's side and an elbow into his chin. Spinning out of the way of a final blow gave Charlie the opportunity to get the giant's free arm turned behind his back where Charlie threatened to break it, but not before that last punch nailed Martin straight in the gut. The Suds' bouncer tapped Charlie out.

"That's it buddy," he said escorting the infuriated twenty-something out. Charlie turned to face Martin who was holding his stomach.

"Sorry about that. You okay?"

"Yep. Just top me up and - "

He didn't get a chance to finish. Instead he threw up bright yellow all over Charlie's feet.

"My shoes! MY SHOES!!! "

Halfway across the world, the hairs on the back of the neck of the finest shoemaker in Italy stood up.

Charlie fought the urge to back hand Martin, paralyzed from the knees down.

Martin belched out an apology followed by, "Ahh, that feels better."

"All day!" Charlie shouted, though it was practically a screech. Martin didn't follow. "Do you know how long it took me to find the perfect pair? These were Italian, you dumbass!"

"Now they're Indian." Martin grinned. He began to laugh and when Charlie didn't, he went blank, recognizing the new threat. "No?" he asked timidly.

"Take off your shoes."

"No!"

"Take off your shoes you abysmal septic tank!"

"No. It wasn't my fault." A few cautious steps moved Martin backwards. "How come you're worse on me than you were on him?"

"He missed! Take them off!"

"NO!"

Martin turned and ran behind the bar. The well-paying regular he was, the bartender let him. Charlie ran after him, gripping the counter and pulling down a long tray of shaved ice. Martin grabbed the seltzer hose and thought better of it immediately. Around and around they went until Charlie was finally able to trip Martin with his wettest foot. Martin hit the floor so that Charlie was able to pin his legs to the ground with his knees and pry Martin's shoes from his feet. They were only a half a size too small but they would do.