A NIGHT IN THE NIGHT LIFE

For all my security family whether you are bouncing, working with a company or an artist, I think that you're going to be able to relate. 

A NIGHT IN THE NIGHT LIFE


Damascus stood with his arms folded. His hairline and fade would pass a laser beam test. It was his birthday and as usual a happy birthday for him was being at work.

 People paid good money to come to a club, listen to the hottest Dj’s , smoke a little bit of hookah, have a couple of drinks, watch the  strippers asses clap, maybe smoke some weed and hope that the Dj would say their name. Damascus got all of that for free, in fact he got paid to do it.

 The Dj was definitely going to say HIS name several times. “There he is ladies and gentlemen real niggas and boss bitches, the 8th wonder of the world ‘The Wall’ my nigga I hope don't get no bigger, Damascus!”

 Dj Mon-Tanner, had worked with Damascus for 3 years. When Mon-Tanner's car was in the shop Damascus had given him a couple of rides. The young Dj was earning his money that night.

 The music was thumping and as he surveyed the crowd over his massive folded arms Damascus couldn't help but nod his head along.

 As an especially explicit song came on a nearly naked patron decided to rub her ample bottom against him. Damascus looked at her with a blank unreadable expression, causing her to move on to the next person.

 The Dj choose that moment to chide Damascus. “Yo Wall what are you 50 now? Make sure to tip security, that old ass nigga ain't running unless you pay him.” He laughed at the Dj's good natured ribbing, but the fact that he was much older than the patrons and the Disc Jockey didn't escape Damascus’ notice. He had been thinking about trying a new career, but the easy money in the strip clubs kept calling him back.

 He was uniquely qualified for the “Night Life”, an athlete that had never lived up to his potential. He had played football at a small community college and remained undrafted he had tried out for and made the practice squad of the Falcons. Only to be cut a little bit over a month later.

 Damascus had gone on to train as a heavy weight boxer, and had been considered a contender until he was caught betting on his own fights.

 Depression crept in after that disappointment and Damascus had broken the jaw of a bodyguard who was attempting to move him from his seat. He had taken the bodyguards place that night. Over the 20 years since, Damascus had gone from being simply a big guy from Alabama to being one of the most sought after security officers in Atlanta. 

 In the interest of maximizing his craft Damascus, who had embraced the nickname ‘The Wall’ mastered Jiu Jitsu and Krav Maga. In his field his size was a non-factor, 6”5' is big for a garbage collector, not for a bodyguard.

 Despite the fact that it was his birthday Damascus was bored. The offers of some head in the bathroom didn't have the same appeal it once had.

 The years had loved him this student of violence, the man called the Wall's, hairline was still stationary and his prodigious beard held very few grey hairs. Most people would have been surprised to discover that it was his 47th birthday. He didn't feel 47. He didn't feel 40!

 Damascus believed that he was as dangerous and  threatening as ever. He felt that if anything his age made him all the more of a threat.

 He had been in enough situations to predict how the average opponent would behave and to know how to react. Thoughts of retirement always went through his mind around his birthday, and as usual he was talking himself out of it.

 Even with the nude women scattered around the 5 stages, and the hypnotic quality of mumble rap, Damascus caught the movement across from the VIP area.

 Damascus was in motion even before the complete scene played out. A local record company executive had chosen to sit at a table outside of the VIP the executive and his entourage were still buying bottles of liquor and acting like important people.

 The waitress that waited on them also had to deal with the regular patrons. The entire reason for separating VIPs from regular customers was the extra attention. Big Bug from “Bugged Out Entertainment” wanted his cake and he wanted to eat it too. He didn't understand why he wasn't the waitresses only priority. So much so that he grabbed her as she got near.

 Damascus didn't play those games, he took disrespect to the staff personally. Damascus was there holding Bug's wrist and instructing him to let the waitress go. 

That was the moment things went bad. An overzealous entourage member, one of those generic average height, average build, but well above average attitude having posers that would be celebrities surround themselves with tried to prove his worth. The Wall saw the man’s haphazard punch in its infancy and slid out of its reach. He stiff handed the would be assailant in his Adams apple. He yanked Big Bug’s wrist up, and then down turning it in the opposite direction and effectively eliminated him from the fight.

 He wouldn't have broken it except for the fact that more of the street celebs minions were in motion. The eight carpal bones were quiet as they were broken, but the radius and ulnar sounded loudly as they popped. Before he dropped the now useless appendage, Damascus used the large man as a spring board that drove his knee into another attacker’s nose shattering the cartilage and chipping the orbital bones of either eye.

 Like a ballerina the Wall spun on his toes using an elbow to blind a 3rd attack dog and got airborne to deliver a crushing superman punch to the final lackey. 

Then he felt something punch into his kidneys hard five times and his hand once more. 

 He recognized the sound of a .38 snub nose but couldn't reconcile that to the burning pain in his side and back. “I been fucking shot.” He thought.

 He was still in motion and had his own gun out. His bullet proof vest had stopped the bullets from shredding his internal organs but fuck it hurt.

 He felt like sitting down. 

 The room was becoming blurry Dj Mon-Tanner was yelling something, but all Damascus wanted to do was sit down.

 The music had stopped and people were screaming and running towards the door. He heard rather than saw his shooter reloading. The sound gave him a focal point and he leveled his Glock 1911  .45  at the man. “I will kill you, bruh drop the pistol.” 

The man gave no indication of complicity, and snapped the now reloaded .38’s cylinder closed.

 Damascus lined his huge pistol up on the foolish individual’s chest and squeezed the trigger. The .45 sounded like thunder, and the stricken man's face took on the pleading, questioning look that humans get before the soul realizes that the body isn't it’s home anymore.

 Damascus found himself on the floor and felt his back. “Jesus Christ I'm tired…” He said.

 He noticed his hand at that point, and was staring through the hole in his palm, at the paramedics that were coming to get him when he passed out.