Mc Murder

“He doesn’t look hard at all!” declared Markie Jones “I could take him no trouble”.

“I dunno man, they say he killed a bloke with some kind of Kung Fu move years ago…one chop and the guy dropped dead!” replied Steve Rayson simulating an open hand blow towards his friends’ neck. “He’s some kind of Ninja or sumthin’”

“A Ninja, my arse! Look at him, he’s only about ten stone wet through. If he was some kind of Rambo – I think he would look a bit more of a man that that” decided Markie, his indignant aggression levels building up inside.

“What you gonna do? Just walk over and plant him?” asked Steve, chewing his bottom lip.
He was OK with a punch up now and again, and with Markie in the lead he was pretty safe just to step in and stick the boot in when the main damage had already been delivered. Markie could handle himself very nicely. And Steve knew Markie well enough to know that once he’d gotten some one in his sights they seldom got away scot-free.

“I’ll finish this, then he’s getting it big time.” Markie waggled his bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale; then used the neck of the bottle to point towards the older looking guy in the far corner of the bar.

Although no Ninja, Daniel Mc Murdo could indeed be considered ‘some kind of Rambo’. He’d served his full twenty one as a British soldier.
First as a rifleman – and he still proudly considered himself a ‘Green Jacket’…then later as a specialist instructor with the SBS. His face told of the hard life he’d lived and each crease in his weathered features amounted to a mission or campaign he’d served on.

Markie was right about one thing; the old dude in the faded green jacket didn’t look like much at all. A bit on the skinny side by today’s’ standards and he was reading a magazine about Shetland Ponies!

When Markie spotted the magazine; that was just the catalyst he needed. He downed the last third of his bottle and stalked over to the old guy’s table.

“Hey you!” announced Markie. He glanced back over at Steve. “You’re sitting in my seat.”

The old ‘Green Jacket’ continued to read his magazine as if he hadn’t heard the announcement.

“You deaf or sumthin’? I said you’re in my seat – move!”

Daniel Mc Murdo – Danny to his friends – sighed in resignation. A morose smile and a barely perceptible nod of his head were the only outward signs that he’d heard the younger upstart. He’d been through this scenario too many times…too many bars…it always started the same… ’who you looking at? Wanna fight? Are you eyeing up my bird? Different words – same outcome.

“Why don’t you sit down and I’ll buy you a drink” offered Mc Murdo, gesturing to the empty seats around the table.
Then he looked over to the barman, “Billy, another Grouse for me and a bottle of brown for the lad here, please”.

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