Light and fruity, just like Mickey Swarsdon, that kid in middle school who you ridiculed mercilessly for his lisp. And who you then stalked just as mercilessly, secretly dreaming of his touch while you sat in the bushes outside the Round Table where his family ate after soccer games.
Your night will be sexually charged and confusing, followed by a touch of resentment at a life repressed, with some light afternotes of morbid nostalgia. You will make one too many subtly homophobic jokes, and in defending yourself, you'll only make it worse. You will be quietly shunned by the rest of the table.
Who You'll End Up Fighting
An old man telling war stories to the bartender just a bit too loudly.
But don't assume you'll win: He once did for sixteen Japs with their own gat dang machine gun.
His eyes will be glazed over as he alternately reminisces on the camaraderie and regrets the atrocities of wartime. Something about his cadence of speech will remind you of your grandfather and the confusion you felt at his passing. You will headlock him by the dumpsters when he steps out to smoke, and that will go swimmingly for about two minutes, but then the drunk will turn on you and you'll end up internally mixing a cocktail of familial grief and childhood sexuality. They'll find you partially inside a trash can, half-hugging a scared old man while sobbing something about Mickey Swarsdon's beautiful little hands.