Scene: Beer Garden of the Waysider Tavern. Time: Mid-evening.
Cast: Assorted onlookers
Handful of bikies (all aged 45+)
Hard-looking manual labourer. (aged 55+)
Action: Bikies lounge around suggestively, making the most of the new street cred they have courtesy of the state govt's groovy new anti-bikie laws.
Hard-looking manual labourer glares at them.
Bikies hesitate a little, then muster a return glare. (The manual labourer has the appearance of one who is dreadfully physical, and the look of a one who has very fast reflexes and plenty of match practice when it comes to brawling.)
Hard-looking manual labourer speaks, in a very very thick Irish accent: "So ye think ye're hard ones do ye?"
Total silence from the bikies.
"Ye wooden know wot hard is, boys"
At this stage one of the bikies points out their pedigree, and their "reputation".
Like a crack of lightning the labourer is on his feet, his chair flies backward several feet.
"Ye think ye're as hard as the IRA do ye?"
"Do ye even know what is the IRA?"
"Well, are ye hard like ye sayz? I don't think ye're hard, I think ye're so soft I could clean the lotta ye up, on me own!"
This assertation is not contested by the bikies, who've already taken a collective few paces backward.
None of the bikies dare meet the Irishman's gaze.
A few minutes later the labourer is back to softly chatting with his friends, the bikies have slunk off with tails firmly between legs, and Mine Host is busy burning the security camera file to disc, for later viewing pleasure.