I really enjoy his blog. It always gets me fired up. The juices flowing. I have enjoyed watching him grow, over the years. I feel almost...patriarchal towards him. He's still got some stages to go through, but I think he'll do fine. If he lives.
See, I have a rule...put your hands on me, and you get cut, deep, and wide. I hope he stays frosty, in case he meets someone like me, in the course of his duties.
I used to do what he's doing now, working as a bouncer, but I worked solo. I don't like, nor do I work well with others. And when you are alone, you can hit anybody you want. They have to watch out for their friends, you can use their friends as cover. And projectiles.
Nothing stops a group of assholes quicker than for you to move in on their Alpha and put his back against you as you hold his larynx and make him choke every time his posse moves toward you.
Frog-march him to the edge of your turf (never leave the light, always assume one or more of them has a gun) then press down on his shoulders until his legs spread, step back quickly, and kick him in the balls (still from behind) to send him staggering forward. Go for a Field Goal. it will take at least two of his cohorts to carry him to their car, while you back away up to the front door of the bar, keeping an eye on them all the way.
Real, genuine badasses do not generally cause trouble. It will behoove you to learn who they are, and glad-hand them, and comp them a drink here and there, so if the shit really hits the fan inside, you can call on them to help you out in a pinch. Those guys just love a chance to kick some ass for free, and after, make sure they don't pay for another drink for the rest of the night.
I remember after one particular brawl, and the mess was cleared up, and the cops took those who could still walk to the pokey, having my waitresses deliver about five pitchers of beer to the guys who helped me's table, and line up about a dozen shots of good whiskey for them. Small price for not having to go to the hospital, and not having the whole place thrashed.
Fighting in your bar is like fighting in your house. The people who live there already know not to fuck with you, and you know your way around the place, intimately. And every bouncer knows the difference in degrees of a chair scooting back. If it grinds back and clatters, you know you got a fight happening, or about to happen.
Or the sound of a pool cue slamming on a table. And my favorite, bitches talking trash. For all the child rearing, and monthly cramps, thank goodness they can't handle simple pain-compliance holds, and cry all the way to the front door, their mascara streaming down their face like a sad, sad clown.
And I loved calling the cops on drunks I'd just chucked out, as they weaved away. Enjoy your DUI, asshole. And I gave the pigs the asshole's plate number, too. In case they made it home.
I'm pretty sure I've mentioned this before, but a real, serious fight should not last more than a few seconds. It should sound like a drum riff, and end with your opponent reeling, or on the floor in a heap. The next time you buy a steak, and set it out on the counter, still in its packaging, take one of your sharp knives, and slice through the plastic, into the meat. Draw the blade from the top of it to the bottom. And listen...
That is what getting cut sounds like. So watch it.