Wiry one

Now as I've explained before, I'm not small. I'm fast, strong and far too ugly for most folk to even think about taking a pop. It just wouldn't be worth the effort trying to re-arrange a bag of spanners. This little incident however showed up just how far from ontop of the game we are.

Now I had my attention drawn to a situation where I spied one of the other useful doormen taking this diminutive lad by the neck towards the nearest fire exit. The fellow it transpired had picked up one of our heavy 3' bar stools and launched it at a punters back. I didn't know this as I ran in and saw him wriggle free from the strong arm Bob had round his neck and think about having another go at the stooled punter. I arrived and with momentum alone sent him into the wall near the exit and quickly applied a hold and sent him through the fire-door.

Here in the bright overhead neon light and the cool and quiet most folk recognise they're leaving and though swearing and shouting, start walking off. This little wriggler was having none of it. He was small enough that he never had a chance of physically moving myself or Bob but when either of us tried to grab an arm and get him moving he writhed like a conger eel and twisted himself free or into a position where we thought it best to release the hold.

For all of his size he was seriously strong. He didn't want to hit us, which in a way would have made our job easier as we could have just upped the game and incapacitated him. He just wanted another go at the stool catcher. He was bloody persistent. Eventually the larger mass and self control got him out of the premises into the night at which point he got the message and buggered off without a further word.

I had a glance back at the nights cctv and I think he'd just taken a snort before he went off on one. I like the 3' stools in our place, they're heavy enough that I wouldn't think of using one as a striking weapon, let alone a throwing weapon. He just grabbed it and flung it with no wind up. Oh the joys of illegal stimulants. The punter whose body stopped the stool was winded but intact and by all accounts pulled by the end of the night so all was well.