When I lived in Brisbane back in 2000-2001, my friends and I use to frequent a pub called the Down Under. It was the kind of place that only internationals went to: other travelers, backpackers, international students, and tourists. It definitely wasn’t a place the locals went.

One night I went there with my then boyfriend and two other American men that just recently moved into the community house where we were living. I didn’t know them that well, and meeting other Americans didn’t happen that often. I don’t recall their names now, just what they looked like.  One was short and stocky, the other tall and lanky.

We wanted to play pool, so when a table opened up, we laid out our money on the side of the table to indicate that we were there for the long haul. It was the kind of pool table that only took change in a slot.

What happened next was like something out of a movie. Three big Australians came in. Huge. Bulky. Rugby playing looking behemoth motherfuckers (or so recalls my exaggerated memory), which was rare because the only other Australians in the place were the ones serving. They approached our table and swiped our change onto the floor. “We’re playing here next. Get the fuck outta here.”

Whoa.

Did that just happen?

Did he just say that?

Am I about to get my ass kicked?

A few moments of tense silence and staring. Then Stocky turned and punched Lanky in the face.  He fell down, nose bleeding, blood running down his face, in complete agony. “If that’s what I do to my friend, what the fuck do you think I’m gonna do to you?”

Holy shit!

What just happened?

Did he just say that?

The dumbstruck Aussies walked out.

And that is the best bar fight I have ever been in (I count myself as an active participant).