The Midget

Let me first say that I'm usually not inclined to share stories that end with me being punched out by a midget. Not because I’m embarrassed, though, to be fair, who wouldn’t be, but because any time I’ve tried telling it, people are sure I am making things up. I can hardly blame them. After all, it sounds like something concocted by a drunk uncle who’s run out of wedding anecdotes. But hand on heart, this one’s as true as a bus timetable in Tasmania.

It started badly and got worse. A mate’s funeral in the morning, followed by a humiliating drubbing on the rugby field from those bastards at Glenorchy, left me emotionally primed for poor decision-making. Naturally, poor decisions always seemed easier in the Mayfair Hotel, a Hobart establishment frequented by ex-private school boys, footballers drowning sorrows, and university types discovering creative ways to vomit on shoes.

The Mayfair was split in two: upstairs, a dancefloor circled by a bar; downstairs, a cave-like cocktail lounge complete with stone walls that jutted out dangerously, decor likely inspired by someone who had never met a sober customer.

Downstairs, Sterling, Dennis, and I were performing the delicate ritual of securing drinks. Sterling had just elbowed his way to the microscopic bar when a shrill voice pierced through the clamour.

“Get the fuck outta my way! Move!”

Sterling, ever diplomatic, ignored it. A mistake. Seconds later, a sharp kick to his Achilles forced his attention downward, to where the angry stare of a tiny, seething man awaited him.

“One more word,” Sterling growled, “and I’ll give you a flogging.”

The diminutive pugilist narrowed his eyes, smirked, and scampered off up the spiral stairs.

Five carefree minutes later, he returned, trailing behind him a figure conjured straight from Nordic nightmares. Picture Thor after a decade-long meth binge, all beard and muscles and leather. This Sasquatch scanned the room until his tiny companion jabbed an accusing finger at Sterling.

“You insult my friend?” he roared, voice rattling whiskey bottles.

Sterling opened his mouth to protest, but the creature launched a haymaker so forceful it would’ve registered on seismographs in New Zealand. Sterling crumpled like cheap patio furniture. Dennis, our cranky lock-forward, decided bravely, foolishly, to intervene. His punch landed like a gentle breeze; the retaliation lifted Dennis by his throat and dropped him with a skull-splitting headbutt.

I stood there, heart trying to flee via my mouth, watching my friends demolished. Bravery, rum and stupidity mingled within me, resulting in a feeble kidney punch I immediately regretted. Thor barely noticed, didn’t even waste a proper punch, swatting me away as effortlessly as a horse swishes flies. I soared backward, colliding skull-first into the decorative rocks, the decorator’s revenge on drunken idiots. Stars exploded in my vision.

Semi-consciousness settled over me, a soft haze like waking from surgery or receiving an ill-advised boot to the head during rugby. Just as reality was returning, I felt a sharp, tiny jab to my temple.

“Take this, bitch!” yelled my assailant, now standing triumphantly on the bench, fists raised like a bantamweight champion.

“Oh, Christ, no,” I whimpered, but mercy was absent from his miniature vocabulary. Punches rained down on my head, each delivered with theatrical gusto, punctuated by knees to my face and humiliating roundhouse kicks. My pleas devolved into pitiful babbling as I endured a world-class thrashing from an enraged hobbit.

Finally, the Sasquatch growled something, calling off his miniature accomplice. They vanished upstairs, leaving me beaten, bruised, and emotionally scarred for life.

I spent the next two days in The Royal Hobart, nursing my pride and various fractured body parts.

Months passed, and memories blurred, until one night, back at the Mayfair, fuelled by rum, vengeance, and testosterone, Sterling and I spotted our pint-sized nemesis strutting confidently, no mythical bodyguard in sight.

Sterling shadowed him into the bathroom while I stood watch. A minute later, Sterling’s muffled voice beckoned me in. I entered cautiously, witnessing Sterling reenacting a boarding-school torment upon our miniature adversary, who seemed decidedly less brave without his Nordic protector.

I tapped Sterling’s shoulder. “Mate, that’s probably enough. Let's go.”

We left hastily, laughter and adrenaline masking our fear, confident justice had been served, only, as we exited, we locked back and noticed something unsettling:

The midget was smiling.

FSF