When Len turned to see what shiny new present Mark was talking about, two of the former patrons rushed him. This was, in their minds, they only way they would get the upper hand on the much bigger man. Although Mark was at least two inches taller than Len (who wasn't short by any means), Len was the one who carried all the muscle. It was this solid build that lent itself to intimidating any number of wanna be bad boys and rebels. It also made his broad back a perfect target for lesser men.
The one who had managed to get behind him looped his arms under Len's, locking his fingers behind Len's head in an attempt to immobilize the leader of the Rogues for his friend to get a few solid punches in. And they did-- one in particular landed right across Cold's jaw and split his lower lip open. The friend was just moving in for another round of punches when a cold smirk drifted across Len's bleeding mouth.
He threw all of his weight back against his captor, who stumbled and slammed back into a wall while Len lifted both legs and plowed his boots into the chest of the punching friend. His captor instinctively let go in an attempt to protect himself. Big mistake. Once Len had his feet under him again, he whirled on the captor with a jab and an uppercut that had the other man melting to the ground. The punching friend's eyes widened with the realization that they'd just lost, and he started charging for the door.
Spitting saliva and blood onto the floor, Len wiped his mouth wit the back of his hand, walking back to the bar and resting a friendly hand on their toothless fan's shoulder as he passed.
"Two beers." He said calmly to the bartender, picking up his cigarette and nursing the cherry back to life. He glanced back over to where Mark was finishing up his own fights but didn't get up to help. Instead, he'd let Mark finish up his own fun and have a beer waiting for him. "A shot of bourbon and whatever he wants-- what'd you want? Scotch?" He called over to Mark over the din of the fight.