[Note: some salty language is translated from Polska]
Mushrooms. Serious business.
There are some people in the world — I’m not one of them, but I’ve met them — anyway, these people instinctively know who’s full of crap when they threaten you, and who isn’t. I’ve been in a barroom where the owners thought it necessary to hang a “No Colors” sign on the wall, and the toilet paper was chained to the wall to keep it from being stolen. If you’re unfamiliar with “No Colors,” it doesn’t refer to Benetton. They’re talking Crips and Bloods and so forth.
Anyway, behind the bar was a little gnomish fellow. He was about four foot thirteen inches, and weighed about as much as an elephant fart. He had a genial smile, missing a few teeth, but really friendly. He looked like he’d just gotten out of leprechaun prison. While I was in there, a guy that looked like Gorilla Monsoon came in and started pushing people around, and generally making a nuisance of himself. The little leprechaun came out from behind the bar, and without hesitation walked up to a sixteenth of an inch from the dude, scowled at him, pointed at the door, and said, “Leave. Now.” The huge guy meekly complied, immediately. The little fellow knew who was frontin’ and who was for reals, yo. The big fellow didn’t.
I think the little bartender has retired, learned Polish, and likes to ride motorcycles in the forest.