"Dude, it was totally magestic," said Rob in his ridiculously soft and sensitive voice, "see if you can beat that, Tyler."

"Alright, bro, just watch this," said the other knob.

I don't even know why I was paying attention to their conversation. I had a much bigger problem in front of me. I had no idea which one he was since all of the ones I'd seen were nearly indistinguishable from each other.

"What do you want?" I asked, "I thought I still had three days. I would very much appreciate it if I didn't get randomly punched again."

"Relax, I'm not here to hurt you," he stuck out his hand to me, "hey, I'm Terry."

"The pleasure is all yours," I said without shaking his hand and turning back to my drink, "what are you doing here, anyway?"

"As you might've gathered from my clothes, I'm off duty right now," he said.

"Yeah I noticed," I said. He was in fact wearing a white polo shirt with black horizontal stripes, but oddly still had on the same cargo shorts. "What's with the shorts?"

"**** you," he got suddenly defensive, "they're actually very comfortable."

"That may be," I said, "but look at where you are. You're wearing shorts, cargo shorts no less, to a fancy bar. Nevermind the fact that they shouldn't have even let you in here, but what's someone going to think when they look at you? 'There goes a man that stepped out of his house thinking I'm not going to get laid today'."

"How refreshingly witty of you, sir," the black vested bartender said from behind the bar. He had a stereotypical snobby British accent.

"Just because I'm off duty, doesn't mean I can kick your ****," he said, unimpressed.

"Aw sheeeet, you just gonna let him talk to you like dat?" the same bartender interjected, now trying to sound like a "gangstah."

Terry and I both turned to look at him in silent shock. "Who the **** are you?" I asked to no avail as the bartender was now entranced with vehemntly wiping down some glasses and did not seem to hear me.

"Anyway, I can absolutely get laid in these shorts," Terry said, "let me show you. Come on."

He downed his beer and stood up, motioning for me to come with him.

"What do you need me for?" I asked.

"Every good operation needs a wingman he said."

I couldn't believe it. The guy who had kidnpaped me and knocked me around not 24 hours ago was now asking me to help him get laid. "I think I'll pass," I said.

"Perhaps the young gentleman is more of a puff than a muffin," the bartender said again in his usual British accent.

"What did you just say?!" I turned to him angrily. But again, he was fixed on polishing the **** out of those glasses. But it was already too late. He'd got me thinking about them again. And while he was wrong about the puff part, right now, no woman's touch could compare to the soft, inviting embrace of a muffin. I imagined myself just falling into bed and cuddling with a gigantic ball of awesome, taking small little nibbles all the while. An image of the previous night (and this afternoon) briefly flashed into my mind.

"Well?" asked Terry, snapping me back into reality.

"Yeah, alright," I said, getting up, "what's this brilliant operation?"

"It's simple," Terry said all chummy-like as he pulled me close to me and wrapped his arm around my shoulder, "there's just one simple rule you must remember."

"What's that?" I asked.

"It's that women like these," he said, motioning to the three business women at the table, "love a man that can beat some ****."

"What?" I said, "that doesn't even make sense. Why? How do you know?"

"Just trust me," he said with the same smile a child about to steal from the cookie jar might have.

"Wait a second," I stepped in front of him and stopped walking, "you aren't planning ot fight me here or anything, are you?"

"Of course not," he smiled, "but I am going to have you do something for me."

And with that he came up close to me and, grabbing the collar of my shirt, pushed me back as hard as he could.