Dismas could draw the grain of the wooden table from memory, of that he was sure.  He knew its rough surface, every bump, notch and stain.  It was his table, in his favourite dig – the kind of place where the air was thick with the scents of smoke, spilled beer and sweat.  Hot animal odours, coming from the breath and bodies of too many men packed inside the room. 

               The rumble of their voices rose and fell, a constant murmur without meaning.  Warm condensation dampened the walls of Jubert's taphouse and the glass of his porter, both. 

               Dismas took another drag, savouring the bitter taste.  Like everybody else, he was here for the alcohol, not the company.  Unlike everybody else, he might not leave alone, if he was lucky. 

               This was where people drank to forget their everyday lives, their unhappy marriages, where it did not matter what you downed and where drinking wasn't an answer – because those doing so had long since given up on finding one – but a purpose. 

               Amidst all of it, one figure stood out.  There was just something about his rigid posture that screamed military.  He was seated by the bar, his mug untouched for the last half-hour.  The short distance between them meant that Dismas could make out his features; short but messy brown hair and beard, and the body of someone who took to workout with the devotion pious men reserved for religion. 

               He had been watching Dismas from the moment Dismas had set foot in the bar, and he hadn't bothered to be subtle about it.  For now, Dismas was content to wait and to keep up the cat-and-mouse game where their gazes would meet and flutter away again. 

               Let this play out as it would.  He could be a patient man, given the right incentive. 

               Meanwhile, Dismas wondered what the stranger's hands were like.  Rough?  Gentle?  Either way, he knew they'd be large and strong.  Strong hands were important, especially if you wanted them to hold you down as you were fucked through the worn mattress of some shabby motel room. 

               A swivel of colour in his glass alerted Dismas that somebody had approached and was doing their best to intimidate his back. 

               "You might want to move over," a deep voice said impatiently, when after a while Dismas still showed no signs of having noticed their presence. 

               The corner of Dismas' mouth twitched at the tone.  Seemed like he'd made some friends already.  Meant they could get to the next level, up close and personal.  That too was why he liked to come here.  Jubert wasn't finicky about blood stains on the furniture and the floor. 

               He turned around, slowly, and seized up the speaker.  He probably had a hundred pounds on Dismas, who barely stood as high as the other man's chin.  His buddies were big fuckers too, and they were in their cups already.  It was easy for Dismas to put a label on them.  Thugs who had learned to use their combined size to intimidate in order to get their way. 

               Fun fact; with shattered kneecaps everyone was smaller than he was. 

               "And why's that?" Dismas asked in a deceptively friendly voice. 

               "'Cause you don't need a table this big all to yourself," one of them said. 

               "And you saw me and wanted to offer to ease my loneliness, that it?" Dismas drawled.  That did not go over very well.  "Don't bother, yer too ugly for me.  And now piss off!" 

               "Why?  What's a lil fairy like you gonna do?  Sprinkle some glitter on us?"  the original speaker asked. 

               Someone in the back snickered.  A circle began to form, the patrons of the bar sensing a change in the atmosphere.  Lazy, alcohol-induced sedation was suddenly charged up with the expectation of a fight.  

               Maybe they had something against earrings.  Maybe Dismas had checked out the wrong arse.  Either way, front guy was going down. 

               Dismas chanced a quick look over to the bar.  Soldier boy was sitting up straight, a fine line between his dark brows, but he did not move to intervene.  Maybe he liked a show.  If so, Dismas would be happy to provide him with one. 

               "You know," he began, as if his intention was to talk.  It wasn't.  It just served as distraction when Dismas stomped on the high arch of the nearest foot, not pausing to relish the crack of breaking bone or the subsequent howl of pain, before he put the heel of one hand in the other man's solar plexus, punching his throat with the other.  From there on it was get a hold on a tattooed head and bash it into the table – his table. 

               The salt shaker fell over and broke, spilling its contents all over the wood, white and gleaming in the low light.  If Dismas' mood had been foul, that would have been teeth. 

               But tonight he was one right jolly fellow, and just let go of the now unconscious man, scooping up handfuls of salt to toss onto the slumped figure. 

               "There's yer fairy dust, ya flatwankin' piece o' shite." 

               The fight was over and done with before anyone could so much as move a muscle to intervene.  This was the dangerous part, where the crowd didn't know how to react yet.  In his back pocket, Dismas could feel the comforting weight of his trusty switchblade, a far better friend in dire situations than the two open-mouthed goons had been. 

               "Anyone else wanna get cute?" Dismas snarled at the shocked audience.  He had spent the free hours of his wild and wicked youth in the cages in backrooms of establishments like this, fighting with his bare fists and razor sharp knives alike.  And now his blood was up and he was ready and willing for more, but they had the common sense to back up.  In the space they created, the owner of the bar pushed his way through. 

               "Trouble?" Jubert asked, cracking his massive knuckles.  He was a man who knew how to use his size to his advantage, as Dismas knew from having seen him break up countless brawls. 

               "You know me, Jubie," Dismas said, spreading his arms in a gesture of innocence.  "I'd never." 

               Jubert snorted, then looked over the two thugs who had managed to pick up their still passed-out friend.  "There's the door.  I suggest you see yourselves out," he said, pointing. 

               Dismas got away with a warning look that he duly noted and disregarded.  He picked up the stool that had fallen over, then sat down again, the crowd around him dispersing now that the entertainment was over. 

               As if by a miracle, Dismas' drink had survived the scuffle.  He chugged the last of the beer in one go, set down the glass with a thud and stood, his mind made up.  A moment later he could see how the object of his interest observed his approach in his glass, and smirked. 

               Alcohol, sex and violence, those were the cheap thrills of Dismas' life. 

               "Hey there, hot stuff." 

               If the soldier reacted positively, he might get laid tonight.  If not, he'd have another, and hopefully better fight.  Either way, it was a win-win. 

               The man turned, not bothering to feign surprise, and scanned Dismas: from the scuffed leather of his steel-toed boots to the worn red scarf around his neck, an old favourite of Dismas'. 

               His brown eyes held Dismas' own for a long time without blinking, before he finally offered a single word, "Reynauld." 

               "Dismas," Dismas introduced himself with a grin. 

               Reynauld broke into a matching smile and flagged down the passing barman. 

               "Two beer." 

               Dismas chuckled and fully settled on the stool beside Reynauld.  Seems like tonight was his lucky night, after all.