Fallon's Flame

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Grinning around a fat lip and bloodied teeth, the large man waved a hunting knife in front of him. “Come on, you big prick. I dare you.”

Jesse Fallon sighed and silently counted to ten before he did something stupid, like break the guy's neck. Granted, leaving the backwoods bar by himself after Tersch had instigated an earlier fight with this idiot and his many friends wasn't smart, but he'd been hoping to avoid more bloodshed. Though Tersch liked to engage in an out-and-out brawl at least once a week, Fallon preferred more peaceful means to alleviate the constant tension that threatened to pull him apart.

He upped his internal count to twenty before answering, “Buddy, I don't know you, and I don't want to know you. Now step aside, before I shove your head up your ass.” If his headache hadn't been bothering him, he would have found a much more diplomatic way to defuse the situation. Instead he knowingly fanned the flames of aggression.

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