It was not the weasel who runs errands for the moon captured within his capacious and boastful heart, who so desperately sought to air his fortunes to the overhanging stars that laughed, and eavesdropped, taciturn and quaint, no. Vince knew exactly what saying a careless, mean-spirited thing like that caused within the trodden soul of a hard-worked, disfigured mien of a man. He knew acting arrogant and recanting his victories over the minimal distance of his foe would incite fury, and it was precisely what he wanted. Why? Because now it was self defense.
The shove however, was a surprise. As welcomed as it was. It took a few seconds of steadying the topsy of the turve that Billy Badass had sent spinning, perhaps a more wayward sort of funny looking trot backwards to avoid spilling the drinks, but unfortunately, he was unable to excuse the prized, precious hookah from becoming a victim of his reach and stumble. However brief it was. It fell, cinders like orange glitter being tapped off of construction paper, in a fiery string.
And before Johnny Jerkoff could properly compose his own chuckling accolades and bask in his supposed early Christmas, Vince was on him like white on rice on a paper plate in a snow storm. In fact, it didn't take the blink of an eye, or the rupturing flash of lightning to get the smile out of the corner of the assholes mouth. It took Vince returning the shove with much more force, with much more might and concern, of course fueled by the adrenaline that surges after the first blow. And watching him fall back into the wooden table with a smug, angry delight, hookah, food, and drinks of the party once right next to them being his new resting place. The people once sitting there had intelligently moved on by then.
"We're going." He'd said to Lia, without turning around.