"What'er you smiling at now, ya freak?"
Chants of "Get 'em Tony" and "Kick his ass" and "Kill 'em" rose from the grim-faced chorus.
A steel-toed riding boot caught Billy's chin and rattled his molars together. His hands slipped on sweat and blood and urine, and his bare chest collided with the roadhouse floor. It was more pain that he imagined, really, even after the bottle of Vicodin he swallowed fifteen minutes ago, before striping to his underwear, strolling into the bar, and spitting in Big Tony's beer.
Yeah, I know. I know. WTF? Friday is time to exercise my writing muscle in a no-rules kind of way. Sometimes it works...sometimes it might be a little painful...