The Horror

Saw my first display of violent Scottish hooliganism last night and I might not be the same again. A few of us were wandering the town before we headed into a pub for a beer. So there we are, drinking at a table in the "snug room" (the Scots are very into their pubs having semi-private "rooms" while getting blind drunk), when we hear female screams coming from outside. We all looked out the window to find the noise and saw four guys in the acts of both putting up and swinging their dukes. The narrative of the fray soon chrystalized as three of the men soon stood over one. They began a physical assault so horrific that William Wallace might have wet his pants. After a few moderately punishing blows to the victims face, the assumed hero of this torture emerged. This white-shirted lunatic decided that all the fist-to-helpless-jaw contact was bothering his hand, so he used the next best extremity. I had never know the resilience of the human skull until this night.

Stomp to the face. Stomp to the face. The bar had called the police by now. Stomp to the face. Blood began casting a glossy layer of red over the victim's face. Stomp to the face. The victim's head was rendered totally motionless by this point - it's only movement being the natural kickback of muscle once the neck had been twisted by a stomp.

Convinced that the pummelee had been nearly killed, the white-shirted thug moved off to finish his Guinness or something. Miraculously, the victim rose to his feet with the help of a friend. And just as abruptly, my faith in the general goodness of man sunk. (PICTURED: a prospective street murderer)