1. Bar Fights
Chris Redfield sat alone on his usual bar stool, holding a vodka bottle loosely and talking gibberish to the bartender. A hazy aroma of alcohol and sweat clouded the large club. Chris had been coming here every night for two years, alone, since the incident, but he didn't want to think about that now.
He looked over to the door to see two teenage boys and their dates walk into the club. Chris smirked slightly at this image; one of the boys was scrawny and weak-looking. Nervous, Chris knew. He looked to the other boy. This one was taller and more built, some what like he was like at that age; confident, sure, independent.
The group of four sat down at a table near Chris, ordered drinks, and started talking immediately. Alright, Chris thought, I don't want to be near these kids if they're just going to be chatting the whole time… He would have to leave soon, but not the way he'd expect. He got up and started walking towards the exit, smirking as he started to pass the group's table. The bigger of the two boys stood up in front of Chris, puffing up his chest to try to look bigger than Chris (he failed).
"You got a problem with us sitting here, old man?" The boy asked Chris, apparently noticing Chris's quick attempt at departure. Chris just smirked again and tried to walk past the kid. He pushed Chris back, causing Chris to stagger back a little bit; the kid was a little strong. The boy looked toward his table and grinned at the girls, their mouths were hanging open as they gazed, astonished at the ignorance of their adolescent friend, taking on this adult with a very well built body.
"Listen, kid, I don't want to start anything," Chris mumbled. He was amazed that he was able to form a coherent sentence, much less not slur.
"Kid? Who do you think you are, grandpa?" The teen's words didn't have as strong of a conviction as his look had, until Chris laughed. Fuming now, the boy's anger sparked. His friends at the table were smothering laughs of their own. The kid punched Chris square in the face, sending Chris staggering backwards, holding his nose. Chris removed his hand from his face; it was smeared with blood. He had enough of this kid's ignorance.
Chris charged up to this kid. He grabbed the teen's collar and pulled back his right arm. One of the girls at the table screamed and yelled to the boy, "Steve! Duck!" It was too late for Steve, here. Chris had sent him flying into the wall with a punch to the face. The girl who had screamed was the first of the group of four to reach Steve. Everyone in the bar was staring at Chris. Al, the bartender, had hopped over the bar and walked over to Chris, who led him out the door and told Chris that he shouldn't come back until he gets his anger problems fixed. The nerve of that guy, Chris thought drunkenly.
So there Chris was, drunk as a bug, sitting outside of Al's Bar on First Street. The sad part was that he had no house to go home to. He had lost it due to lack of payments on his part because he didn't have a job and he spent all of his available money on alcohol. Then he saw her...