Preston's Reckoning

I went to the campus bar last night with Brittany, a girl from my class, to have a few beers. As we entered, I sat down at one of the last unoccupied tables while my friend went to the lineup at the cash to order, the two of us having already agreed to get a pitcher of the the cheapest stuff they had. After being in a class as boring as the one we were just in, any alcohol would have done just fine, so it only made sense to be economical about it.

I recognized the guy working behind the bar as a smug bastard--"Preston." He was lanky, around twenty-five or six, and had curly, pubic-like red hair, which was receding, almost as though it was trying desperately to get away from his ridiculous Buddy Holly glasses.
If you've been around post-secondary institutions, you've seen these types of guys everywhere. They wear brown corduroy pants in an effort to appear more earthy; and their T-shirts, which are usually tighter than ones underage girls wear to get in to clubs, are as obscure and ridiculous as possible--which, in their eyes, makes them subversive, different, and therefore "cool."


Yeah, this is the "Preston Look" all right. Eugh.

Guys like this usually do their best to make even the most simple conversations difficult, by constantly injecting their smarmy, pseudo-intellectual, leftist remarks. Brittany, now first in line, was about to discover this. She asked for our cheap beer, Preston tapping it in on the register's key pad, one of his eyebrows slightly raised.

"Hey Julie!" Preston said, grinning at a co-worker. "Do me a favor and pour me a pitcher of the very best cheapest beer we have, will ya?" He then snickered with a few of the other people at the bar.

Brittany, visibly annoyed, tossed the money on the counter. "How many times have you said that line today?" she asked. Preston gave no response, and passed her the filled pitcher and a couple of glasses. As she walked to our table she mouthed, "What an asshole!"
I nodded in agreement.

I hadn't eaten much all day, so after a bit of beer I decided I would get a few beef Samosas, which are basically spicey ground hamburger, wrapped in an egg-roll-like coating of...Samosa. They're about the size of those novelty dice people hang from their rear-view mirrors, only they're not cubes--they kind of look like greasy little pyramids.

I walked to the register, Preston eyeing my approach. "Hey, can I get three of your beef Samosas, please?" I asked.
"Three beef samosas, hmm?" Preston repeated, giving a chafed sniff.
"--That's what I said."
"That'll be five-fifty," he groaned, looking me in the eye. "You know, you may not be aware of this," he continued, "but Samosas are Indian food. In India the cow is a holy animal, revered above all others--so naturally they don't put beef in their Samosas. I think it's pretty absurd how the Western world is so determined to stamp out Eastern culture, yet constantly borrowing from them in order to add fuel to the ever-roaring capitalist machine!"

My hands, which were at my sides, then made a sound a lot like someone stepping on bubble wrap, I was clenching them so hard.

"Of course, simply stealing from their culture isn't enough," he went on, not sensing my rage. "No, we then take their Samosas, which are traditionally made only with spiced vegetables, and then fill them with the flesh of their sacred cow, as if to give the finger to their entire way of life! It's this sort of ignorance that made me become a vegan."

I stood there in disbelief. Does he actually work here, or am I on some kind of hidden camera show? I thought to myself. I reasoned that I had seen him here in the past too often for this to be some sort of prank. My mind went through all the responses I could give to this guy. But there were far too many to choose from, so I just gave way to my anger and let my mouth do the work.

"Take a look at that menu on the wall behind you, you stupid fuck!" I pointed. "It says BEEF SAMOSA--and you sell the goddamn things!"

All the people in the bar were looking at us by this point, but I didn't give a shit.

"I don't want hear about your fucking lifestyle, either, you sandal-wearing cocksucker! Instead of muttering your pretentious ideology to everyone who orders this stuff, why don't you fucking quit this job so you can save people the time it takes to point out that you're a fucking hypocrite!"

Preston squirmed. He was clearly used to having people nod along with his views.

"And by the way, I happen to love eating flesh!" I continued. "The redder the better, I always say. So toss those fucking samosas in the oven and hurry up about it!" I then bounced a handful of change off the counter for him to count and returned to my seat.

Brittany sat opposite me, shocked. "What?" I asked, pouring the beer, which I drank quickly.
"Oh, nothing--I'd probably have done the exact same, had I thought of it," she sarcastically responded.

A few minutes later my Samosas arrived, carried by one of Preston's co-workers. No surprise there. I stared at them on my paper plate, holding the plastic knife and fork they had provided. It occurred to me that Preston also worked at an establishment that chose to use disposable cutlery and plates so they wouldn't have to do dishes. Way to help the environment, Captain Planet!

I realised that I had lost my appetite. Brittany suggested we leave and go out for a smoke to calm down. I agreed. I took the Samosas to the bar and asked the now timid Preston if they had any plastic bags for me to put them in.

"No, we don't," he immediately responded.
"I find that a little hard to believe," I said.
"I can give you another plate to put on top of it, if you want."
"That's no good--I'm putting these in my backpack."
"Hold on," he said, walking into the back room.

He returned carrying a foam container, the perfect size for what I needed (although ironically even more harmful to Mother Earth, since it wouldn't decompose for another five-hundred years or so.) I wondered why he had to make a hassle right off the bat instead of getting what he knew was there immediately.

"Thanks a lot," I said, taking the foam container. Preston grunted his acknowledgement.
As I turned to walk out with Brittany, I glanced at the foam container and saw that something had been written on it in blue ball-point pen. "JERK."

"What's this shit?" I asked her, gesturing to the box. "Oh, that's probably the container they use for 'Jerk-Rotties,'" she responded. "They're pretty good, have you ever ha--"
"--that fucking asshole!" I yelled.
"I really don't think he was calling you an jerk," she said, handing me a cigarette, hoping I would follow her to leave.
"Yeah, right," I said, turning towards the bar.

"Hey Presss-ton!" I roared, running at full speed towards him. He turned just in time to emit a womanly scream at the sight of my charge. I then dove over the counter and barreled into him, driving him hard to the floor. Bottles rained from their display on the wall and crashed all around us. I grabbed an empty glass and splintered it into Preston's face, leaving deep lacerations.

"MY FACE!! MY FACE!!" he wailed, blood spurting. I then delivered a fury of punches, shattering his glasses and busting his teeth.
"I'm a Jerk, am I Preston?!" I shouted as I pummelled. "Well, I guess I'd better act the part!"

I then reached for a beef samosa that was on someone's plate and stuffed it into Preston's broken mouth. "Chew it up, motherfucker!" I screamed, attempting to work his jaw for him. "Swallow that dead cow--that's right! You loovvve it!"

Preston choked and spat a mixture of blood and hamburger as I continued to cram Samosa into his mouth. He had learned his lesson, I thought, standing and giving him a final kick to the head.

"Mahh fwayce!!! Mahh fwayce!!" he said unintelligibly, his mouth still stuffed with meat.

"Somebody'd better call this guy an ambulance," I said, wiping the blood from my hands on Preston's cords.

"Hey, way to go, man!" a guy my age said from a nearby table. "I've been wanting to tell that guy off for years, but I've never had the guts! I'm glad somebody finally kicked the shit out of him!"

I gave a smile of appreciation. "Hey, don't mention it. I didn't think--I just acted."

"Duuude!! Can we buy you a drink, dude?" another drunken frat-boy at the guy's table shouted, spilling a bit of his beer in the process.
"Thanks guys," I said, holding up a patient hand. "I'd naturally be happy to any other time, but... I think we'd better be on our way," I said, looking towards Brittany, who was still waiting, cigarettes in hand. I grabbed one from her and put it in my mouth, lighting it with my Zippo. As Brittany and I walked to the door, two enormous bouncers entered from outside and stood in our way.

"What was all that noise in here?" one of them asked. I gave them a cool stare, taking a deep drag off of my cigarette. Then, exhaling the smoke, I said, "Oh, nothing--just some homie causing trouble. I think he scurried out the back."

They evaluated the situation in silence. Well... near silence. Preston was still gargling "Mahh-fwayce!!" from behind the counter.

"Yeah, those homies are always stirring shit up around here," one of the bouncers said to me, winking. "You folks have a nice night!" They then stood aside, allowing Brittany and I to pass.

"You too, fellas--you too." I said.