Crack!

Sapphire eyes flit up to the pool table you're leaned over. He likes the way you look on pool nights, eyes zero'd in on the cue ball, your billiard pulled back past your elbow. You're playing some idle fellow you challenged you and he watches with a smug expression as you miss the pocket for a second time.

"Easy, sweetheart. You'll get nowhere smacking it off of the damn table- here let me show you."

What a tool. Bob rolls his eyes from over his Coke as the guy strides over to seemingly manhandle her into the "right" position. Instead, now, though he readies his own billiard as an example. When he draws it back, it slides right up your skirt and he cracks it forward. Bob almost spits his drink out.

"There ya go, baby," he muses smugly.

Now Bob's no confrontational man--it's in his meek nature--but he'd also rather dig out his eyes with a rusty spoon before idly watching some douche get handsy with you—so he swiftly stands up and strides over to the table.

His hands are suddenly white-knuckling the guy's collar and, before he knows what he's getting himself into, he punches him square in the nose. Blood spurts everywhere.