With a right hook the thieving bastard hit the cold cement. What a fookin' twat. I'll tell ya 'bout it...

"Busy day?"

The barkeep was dusting off a mug. He had a slender build with a white collared shirt rolled back at the sleeves and needed to adjust his reading glasses every so often, as they kept slipping down his nose.

"Ah livin' the bloody dream I am."

McGregor had straddled a stool and was leaning forward, his forearms resting on the bar. As the barkeep finished pouring the beer, McGregor smiled broadly as he sat up and rubbed his hands briskly together.

"Looks a treat!"

"Aye, it does don't it?"

An elder gentleman was seated on a barstool a few metres down from McGregor. He looked working class and he too had his sleeves rolled back on his sweater, such was the still humid weather this late afternoon.

The glass of beer slid his way.

"Wait. Waiiiiiit. The fook is dat?"

The barkeep, hearing the aggravated tone, raised an eyebrow as he leaned back against shelving that made up the back most wall of the bar. A bottle of McDougall's Irish Whiskey was accidentally nudged. It swiveled a little in its place, the sound backed by a thick silence.

"A mighty glass of God's nectar."

The elder gentleman had responded before the barkeep could voice his thoughts.

McGregor ignored the old man's response and was still staring at the barkeep, his eyes glowing.

"Ya laughin', ain't ya?!"

"Was 'ere first, SON." Came an immediate response from down the bar. "Patience be a blessin', ya know?"

With a sneaky right hook the bastard knocked me bloody tooth out. What a cunt. I'll tell ya 'bout it...

"Busy day?"

"World's gone to shite. Brew me."

The guy looked a scruffy sort. Smelt a bit funky too. Did look like he'd just finished a job somewhere though and that farm outside of town was hiring. His clothes showed it. Dirt and muck for days. Goodluck to whoever had to wash that hell.

McGregor clicked his fingers, pointing at the glass of beer as it slid down the bar, "the fook is dat?!"

"The best brew this side of the diary, sonny."

The old man had a slow and deliberate cadence compared to McGregor. He raised the glass to his lips, pausing.

"Let me buy you on-.."

Earlier that day...

The grass smelt fresh. McGregor was swiping a long blade left and right. He'd cut a little, take a step, swing the blade a little more and take another. He'd got a nice rhythm down and had cut clean a good quarter of what was tasked when he heard a voice boom from somewhere behind him. It caused him to stop. He kept an ear out yet didn't turn around.

Nothing. Another swing of the blade. More now dead grass trimmed. McGregor cracked a light smile and stopped again. He looked up at the sun overhead with his left forearm shielding his eyes from some of the sunlight. It was bright out and the sun was at its zenith with barely a cloud in sight. He wiped his forehead against his forearm, clearing away some of the sweat that was trickling into his eyes.

The thought of his mother telling him how the smell of cut grass was actually a sign the grass was in pain crossed his mind. He did have the tool for the job as the blade looked like something the grim reaper might use. Mass killing grass on a farm wasn't exactly what he'd thought he'd be doing when he arrived from overseas.

As he lost himself in the warmth of the afternoon sun a moment, a sharp whistle could be heard. Then dogs barking. It snapped McGregor out of his daydream. He turned around.

He noticed four men. Three looked to be some kind of authority in the way they were dressed. Matching uniforms with cowboy hats. The other was in overalls holding what looked to be three leashes with dogs barking and tugging at the end of them. They were all looking and moving in his direction.

Although a little ways off in the distance, the group could see him and he too could see the group.

"The fook?"

McGregor was a talker. He practically came out of his mother singing. His dad had always said he came into the world holding his hands up, like a boxer, and so was destined to fight. His mother said he'd screamed the hospital down, and so he would likely be doing something to grab people's attention, like an entertainer. Up against his current odds, it was obvious to him that neither of those skills would get him out of this.

"Fook 'em. They'll do nuttin'!"

McGregor dropped the scythe, turned towards the creek and starting legging it.