OTA

[jageskro]

Jag hit the wall of the alley a bit roughly, barely having time to hold up his hands to catch himself. He could taste blood (split lip, he figured), and his jaw throbbed where the bastard's punch had landed. The bastard in question had been thrown out of the club's front door, while he was thrown out the back, the better to stop them from keeping the fight going in the street.

That was counting without Jag's brand of stubbornness when it came to giving that sort of dickhead what they deserved, but by the time he got back to the street, there was no sign of the other bloke. He spat out some blood on the pavement in front of the club, disgusted about the lack of closure, then headed off to find a bar, and more alcohol, to drown out the ache of the bruise beginning to appear on his face.

"You should see the state the other bloke's in," he assured the first person he found staring at his face.