Tank's tab...

Mike Tyson walked into the bar.

We just kind of stared at him. It reminded me of the time when Tank Abbott walked into the casino that me and a buddy were at. We were sitting at the bar, and he walked up and ordered a drink. Some kind of vodka.

My buddy, who was a bit of a jackass, well before anyone thought of being paid to be a Jackass, leaned over to me and said “Hey, man. I’m going to get punched by Tank Abbott.”

Now remember, this was 1995 or 1996. This was when Tank Abbott was one of the baddest mother fuckers on the planet. Before he was exposed as an MMA one-trick pony.

“Are you fucking nuts?” I said matter-of-factly enough to try not to show that I was very interested in where this was going. “He’ll kill ya.”

We both took a swig of Budweiser and looked at Tank. He had two blondes with him. One had real tits, one fake. Neither were particularly attractive, but man, did they have tits. Maybe that’s what Tank Abbott was into? And who were we to judge. We were two skinny 20-somethings who hadn’t been laid in years.

“Nah, he’ll hurt the shit out of me for a little bit, but then I’ll have a great fucking story about when I got into a bar fight with Tank fucking Abbott,” my buddy said, taking another swig of beer and motioning to the barkeep.

“Two whiskeys!” he pronounced with a wink at me.

“On him!”

“Coming right up,” the barkeep said
I looked at my buddy with a bit of a stare.

“Shit, the least you can do is pay for the drinks. I’m about to get slaughtered here.”

“It’s your life,” I replied and finished my beer. I fucking detested Budweiser. But I was broke, and it was the cheapest thing this shitty casino far off the strip had.

The shots came, we clinked glasses and drank it up.

Then, my buddy walked over the Tank Abbott and tapped him on the shoulder.

“What?” he said turning around.

“You’re a fucking pussy!” my buddy said, just loud enough for everyone within 10 feet to hear.

“Really?” Abbott said. “You really want to do this?”

“Do what?” my buddy responded rather funnily.

“End your life in this shitty little casino?” Abbott said.

“Nah, I just thought I’d beat you up.”

Punch. Punch. Punch. Grab. Punch. Punch. Punch.

My buddy hit the floor. Hard. He wasn’t going to get up.

I, however, had to.

I rushed over and knelt down to my buddy’s side.

“You may want to move,” one of the blondes said. I saw out of the corner of my eye a big foot coming down on my buddy’s chest. I pushed him out of the way just in time. The food hit floor.

“What are you doing, son!” Abbott said, now directing his anger at me.

“Saving my buddy’s life,” I said.

“And ending your’s?”

“Nah, Tank, uh, Mr. Abbott. How about I buy you and your friends (I pointed at the two blondes) a round of drinks?”

“A round, huh?”

“OK, two,” I said.

“OK, kid. You got a deal. Hope your buddy appreciates what you’re doing.”

“He won’t. Until tomorrow.”

“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha,” he laughed maniacly.

I got my buddy up off the floor and put him in a booth. I went to the bar with Tank Abbott. He smiled and put his arm around me.

At the bar, he announced to the barkeep “This kid’s paying for the next two rounds!”

“You sure, kid?” the barkeep asked.

I had no other response except a meek “Yep.”

The barman, I’d learn later his name was Keith, pointed to the left of the stage where some really bad 1980s hair metal cover band had been playing about 15 minutes ago. There, a group of about 100 people were standing around.

“That’s my crew!” Abbott yelled and laughed his evil laugh again. “Drinks for all of ‘em. Times TWO!”

I thanked my lucky stars we were in a shithole off the strip instead of the Bellagio. At least I won’t be paying for Cristal.

“Two Budweisers,” I said to the barkeep. “Can I get those first?”

The barman looked at Tank Abbott. Abbott nodded his approval.

“Anything for my new best friend!” he laughed and walked away.

I got the Buds, and drank a full one before I even moved. I started on the second one as I walked over to my buddy. He was awake now, staring at the scene over by the stage.

“Man, that’s a crazy scene over there. You’d think they were getting free drinks.”

“They are, man.”

“Shit, then why don’t we join them?”

“I’m going to kill you dude.”

He then took my other Budweiser and drank it down.

The barkeep came over with the bill a few minutes later.

“It could’ve been worse, kid,” he said handing me a little receipt. It read $7,346.23.

“How so?” I asked.

“You could’ve been at the Bellagio.”

And here I am nearly 20 years later, I still haven’t paid that tab. And my buddy still has a great story to tell…