If he had to trace it back, Leary would have said that it was at the moment that Trotman smashed the limbo dancer in the face with the chair, that he knew that he would not be spending the night rolling about in a bath tub full of sangria and Spanish twins.
The twins hadn’t taken well to the sight of Maxi, the mop handle matador, collapsed on the floor, moaning and clutching at the flow of blood under his freshly flattened nose.
All five feet and six inches of beer-soaked Trotman loomed over the limbo dancer, “Didn’t duck that did you, you slick prick! Stay away from my girl you pigeon-toed broomstick-dodging scum!”
The Spanish faces packed around the bar all turned towards the two gringos and it felt to Leary like he and Trotman were suddenly a long way from home.
Leary kissed each of the stunned twins on the cheek and dragged Trotman towards the door, “We, my friend, are out of here.”
A group of Catalunyans with bad haircuts began to gather on the other side of the bar.
Trotman looked back and pointed at the bloodied limbo maestro sprawled on the floor, “These slimy dogs don’t pay no respect to the laws of engagement Lear. That Maxi character was cutting my grass.”
Loud shouts of Catalan began to build in the bar as the pair hurried out into the fresh night of Barcelona’s latin quarter.
“That was his sister, you moron!”
Trotman looked puzzled for a moment before adding, “Well, I won’t stand for that sick incest crap either.”
Leary rolled his eyes as thoughts of Spanish twins and the laws of friction began slipping away, “Trotman, you are, without a doubt, a massive pain in my arse.”