I swaggered up to the bar, slapping my hand down.
Whisky por favor, rapido.
The barman eyed me warily. He had a patch over one eye and the other looked as mean as a rattlesnake that's been mistaken for a tampon. He moved over, polishing a glass with slow malicious strokes before slopping something brown in it and sliding it over.
Cual es tu nombre, gaijin?
I had been in Ibiza for a mere few hours and had quickly found the roughest bar in town. It was something I did everywhere I traveled. I, like all Scots had a knack for it.
I spat on the floor, one of the patrons shouted in outrage but I ignored him, for now.
Mi llamo es perro prosciutto.
in his mother tongue I told him I was the boom dog. I pretty much had this Spanish lingo nailed just by watching shitty soap operas.
The barman looked angry and motioned to a couple of his compatriots.
Ah this was more like my kind of language, I downed the rusty swill that passed for whisky here, slapped my hands together and turned to face them. It looked like things were gonna get a bit tasty.
We all turned and stared at the door. Silhouetted by the sun was the good lady and my daughter holding an inflatable giraffe shaped rubber ring thing. Uh-oh
Erm, just coming darling!
I shot a glance behind me as I hurried to leave, the barman and his cabron friends were returning to their places smirking. I made a fa fangoo chin stroking gesture and shouted.
Quiero comer algo mierda!
a dread insult that had something to do with their mothers I am sure.
That seemed to shut them up. Maybe they will think twice before messing with a Scotsman.
I went off with the good lady and took our daughter to the beach. My reign of terror had only just begun on this forsaken isle.