At least Marcus was more his size than the guy in the club. Roger tumbled with Marcus, crashing into a rack of pots and pans. He grabbed the back of Marcus' shirt, pulling it up over his head so he would be blind and disabled. At the same time he tried to bring a knee up to hit his face, his chest, his stomach, whatever it would reach.
"Nobody is allowed to make Lisa feel bad about herself," he managed to get out. After all, Marcus had a right to know what Roger was attacking him. It was poetic, too.