The other man scowled harder, apparently incensed by reasonability, and raised his voice. The men at the table from which the ale had been snatched started to take notice of the brewing conflict, grins spreading maliciously over weathered faces. “You godda- got a problem with payin’ for yer own drinks, boy?” The man shook Constans’ arm to add emphasis, causing some small amount of alcohol left in the other man’s mug to slosh up over the edge and right onto his feet. He looked down at the wasted beer slopped over the toes of his shoes, scowl knitting into incoherent anger. Constans watched him with a lack of visible concern, something akin to mild curiosity the only thing visible in his docile expression.
“Boy needs to show you some respect, Martin,” incited one of the men at the table. The drunk hardly needed the encouragement. Still gripping Constans’ arm, his fist flew forward and sucker-punched the younger man in the cheek. Constans’ gasp of pain was drowned out as the three tankards he’d been carrying slipped from his fingers, cracking against the floor. Men at the table pushed back their chairs and began to jump to their feet, yelling and laughing breaking out, most of the bar just then taking notice of the altercation. The drunk staggered in recoil from the first punch, lost his grip on Constans’ arm, his balance long since compromised, but reeled back to punch again.
Constans, with a wide-eyed expression of perfect surprise, socked the drunken lout right in the eye. The bar roared.