Pipsqueak was a little runt with a big ego. He was as unremarkable drunk as he was sober–just another nobody who thought he was a somebody. At 1:45 am he was just another drunk nobody getting eighty-sixed from a grimy little nightclub in a grimy part of town.

About 20 minutes later, Pipsqueak and two of his buddies came back to the club to use the john. Someone must have forgotten to lock the front door, giving the little runt and the other two idiots all the invitation they needed to come back.

Jimbo, one of the club’s honchos, confronted Pipsqueak. I don’t remember what he said exactly but the gist of it was, What the fuck are you doing here?

Pipsqueak’s reply was a drunken slur. Jimbo retorted by wrapping his fingers around Pipsqueak’s neck. Pipsqueak’s two buddies ran away in fear.

As Pipsqueak’s cronies ran past me and out the front door, Jimbo pushed Pipsqueak into the restroom and shoved him face first into the floor directly between two urinals–the filthiest spot in the club at the end of any busy night. It was slick with piss, vomit and other biohazards.

After shoving Pipsqueak’s mug into the nasty mess between the pissers, Jimbo stood up and put a foot on his back. “I’m gonna piss on you,” Jimbo announced as he unzipped his fly. Pipsqueak looked up at Jimbo in terror.

A bunch of employees peeked into the boy’s room to see what the commotion was all about. They looked on in disbelief. There was a giggle or two from the audience. Jimbo looked around and decided against urinating on Pipsqueak. Instead, he grabbed Pipsqueak by the back of his collar, pulled him up to his feet and pushed him to the exit. A couple of girls clapped and cheered as Jimbo shoved Pipsqueak through the front door.

Pipsqueak rejoined his cronies, who were halfway down the block with the rest of their dipshit crew. They all asked the same question: “What happened?”

Pride prevented Pipsqueak from answering the question. Instead, he fumed silently for a few moments, paced back and force, then punched the plate glass window of a storefront behind him.

As his fist punched through the glass, several spear-shaped shards fell from the top of the window pane, cutting Pipsqueak in a variety of different places. One of the glass shards cut the brachial artery of his right arm. Pipsqueak started gushing out blood. He tried putting his hand on top of the wound, but he couldn’t stop the bleeding. He felt weak and collapsed.

The puddle of blood surrounding him grew increasingly larger and started trickling downhill. Pipsqueak’s friends stood and watched in amazement, hypnotized by the growing crimson pool and unsure of what to do next. There was only one person in Pipsqueak’s group of morons with the presence of mind to dial 9-1-1 on her cellular phone.

I was unaware that any of this idiocy had taken place down the street from the club. But as I left the building and walked by, I saw firemen hosing down the sidewalk with water. The concrete was soaked with Pipsqueak’s blood. It was just another biohazard; another chapter of bodily secretions added to the urban cesspool of sad stories, only to be washed away.

Tags: blood · nightclub · urine