The lights were dim, the conversation thrummed, the staff behind the bar were serving customers with a practised smile and friendly banter, a couple of young turks in the corner were being boisterous - periodically eyeing the room to let everyone know who was running things - and the fire on one wall was giving the room a cosy atmosphere, with its flickering light and the aroma of oak wood-smoke. This was a village pub that had seen countless nights just like this since well before the War; the same story replaying itself over and over.
    Mike was sitting at one end of the bar, with a pint and two friends next to him, and a dog at his feet. He was a tall, well built man, with the easy, fluid motion of someone comfortable in his surroundings, comfortable in his skin, and able to look after himself. He was deeply immersed in conversation with his friends, Derek and Joe, as people do in this kind of environment - a warm fire, plenty of time, and a couple of pints bringing out the desire to set the world to rights. This is an event that has occurred many times, too, as this was Mike's, Joe's and Derek's local.
    The front door flew open with a bang, causing those nearest to turn around with a start, and the foul weather started blowing into the room. It was miserable outside tonight - gusty, wet, cold, and the skies varied between clear, hail, sleet, snow, and back again - a typical early Spring in England. Mike got up, indicating to the barman that he would take care of it, while muttering to himself about people leaving the outer door open in the first place... and closed both doors from the weather. People went back to their conversations.
    When he got back to his stool by the bar, Mike was surprised to see that one of the young turks had perched himself on his stool, keeping his back to Joe and Derek, and was sitting there as if the seat, pint and money sitting on the bar were his own. The other turk was watching and bobbing his head from the corner to get a good view - clearly waiting to see what would happen.
    This was one of the problems with life in a village, Mike knew. Bored young men with too much time on their hands and not enough to keep them occupied. Most such men found pursuits to keep them occupied: sports, hobbies, work, a family, even computer games, but there are always a few who go out looking for trouble. The young turks. In Mike's experience, most of the time they'll sit at one side or corner of a room making just enough noise to be irritating, but never enough to be kicked out - and all the while looking for an opportunity to get their hands dirty.
    Derek was looking between Joe, the two young men and Mike in confusion - as if he'd missed something important, but wasn't quite sure what. Joe unobtrusively adjusted his position on his own stool so he could see both young men. He also knew how to handle himself - he'd been a bored young man in this village himself once.
Mike walked up to the bar so he was standing next to the interloper, and made his mind up when the young man leered up at him before hunkering down to pretend as though nothing was out of the ordinary.
    "Alright, mate?" Mike asked, cheerfully.
    He received no response, except to see some more of his pint disappear down the young man's throat.
    Joe got up off his stool to lean against the bar with his pint, between the young men and the opposite site of the interloper from Mike.
    "I think you have something of mine," said Mike. It was a statement.
    The turk laughed derisively and started to finish Mike's pint, up-ending the glass to drain it. Quick as a flash, Mike clenched his fist and rapped the young man's lower chest with the back of his knuckles - not very hard - before placing his hand back on the bar as it was before. Anyone looking would have needed to have been looking directly at Mike from the right angle to see anything. The effect was immediate… the young man choked and started coughing, his face went red, and he started to slip off the stool as his knees buckled.
    Mike was there to catch him, and help him up.
    "Are you okay, mate?" he asked with apparent concern. "Did something go down the wrong way?"
    The other young turk started moving forward to see what had happened to his mate, and had clearly had not seen what Mike had done. As he was making his way to his friend, one of the bar staff rang the bell, "Last orders, everybody! Last orders, please!"
    "Saved by the bell, my young turk," Mike spoke quietly into the gagging young man's ear. "You want to be more careful - you could hurt yourself."
    He could only look up at Mike with a look of disbelief and pain, unable to say anything.
    "Here," Mike said to the other young man. "You'd best take your mate home - he doesn't look too well. The fresh air will do him some good."
    The once proud, young men staggered out of the pub with one leaning heavily on the other, as Mike and Joe took their stools once more and ordered once last pint for the evening.
    "So what was all that about?" asked Derek, still with a confused look on his face.
    Mike's dog still sat there, looking up at him and happily wagging his tail as if nothing had happened.
    Joe and Mike looked first at Derek, then the dog, and then at each other and laughed.