The Art of Tending a Bar: Superman
The young bartender cracked his knuckles and rolled his neck. Thank god it was only an hour until closing time. It had been such a long day. The man at the bar harassing him wasn't making things better.
"Think you're so tough cracking your bones like that," he said drunkenly. His friends laughed for some odd reason.
The bartender sighed, slinging his rag over his shoulder and rolling his eyes. He wasn't entirely up for this tonight.
The man stood, with a bit of difficulty, and pointed his finger at what he thought was the bartender. He was actually a foot off, but that didn't matter. He muttered something like "I'll show you", then began flexing his muscles. The bartender had to admit that the man before him was quite large. He must have been a biker or physical education teacher because in about four seconds, the shirt ripped in several places, causing the men around him to holler and cheer. The bartender, on the other hand, was kind of grossed out.
Without much of a reaction, he reached under the bar and grabbed the tap hose, spraying the drunkard with alcohol until he was drenched.
"You little punk!" the man bellowed and lunged for him, but the bartender just squirted booze in his eyes. By that time, the security guards had seen the normal cue and arrived at the scene to take the man outside. The man was shouting at the bartender that he would be back to kill him later.
Just like the others around here, the bartender thought to himself bitterly.
"Good job, superman," a familiar-looking female sitting at the end of the bar said. The bartender looked at her with a small smile. He didn't really think he'd see her again. She just smiled and put down a five dollar bill. "I bought a beer today. Improvement, right?" With that, she disappeared into the crowd.