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"You ain't gonna win," he slurred before pounding back a sixth shot of whiskey. The bar was starting to empty out, and perhaps it would have been time for Ricky to start heading home if he had an idea what time it was, but he was far too pre-occupied in an intense drinking game with the strong, tattooed and dreadlocked fellow in the stool next to him. Ricky was convinced that he could outdrink the other man, but after six shots the alcohol's effects were clearly kicking in. He wasn't trashed quite yet, but there would only be a few more he could take in such a short time before he'd want to call it a blacked out night.

He slammed the empty shot glass on the bar as the whiskey swam down his throat, providing a light sting. He sighed out, the alcohol's smell strong on his breath. He was generally find without a chaser, especially this many drinks deep.

"Yer drunk yet?" he questioned.

Ricky had to take a leak too, but men don't follow other men into the bathroom. He figured he could just wait and found himself able to pass the time by being entertained by the buzzing phone, vibrating its way across the bar scooting closer and closer to the Alabamian. The soft glow of the phone's display lit up his face and his eyes drifted to the text.

He struggled to read it - and being drunk certainly didn't help - but after taking perhaps too much time trying to analyze the five simple words he arched a surprised brow.

"New Text from Van Rae"

Van Rae? He knew that name! It was only a few weeks back that Ricky and Van found themselves drunk, naked, making out and trespassing in a stranger's pool. That was as far as things got between them, however, as the owner of the house - a friend of Ricky's, coincidentally - caught them in the act. Prosper was being a total cockblock, in retrospect.

"Ya got a text from a Van Rae," he said. His southern drawl was thick, and the pronunciation of her name was brutalized. "How do ya know 'er, bra?"

"Yeah, I know her a 'lil," Ricky grinned, his face lit up with his guilty smirk. He was clearly hiding something, and it would take absolutely not prodding from the other man at all for him to start to boast. It would, however, take one more shot. He took the shot glass and raised it, tipping it as if to toast before slamming it back and onto the bar. As soon as the glass was emptied and the drink swallowed, he turned proudly to the dreadlocked man.

"We hooked up when skinnydippin' in my friend's pool," he nodded, sharing the information as if he expected a fist bump or a high five to follow suit. "She's a fun girl. I should give 'er another all again sometime."

Ricky couldn't help but laugh at first. Kam's reaction was so large and haste, there was something he found funny about it, or perhaps it was a bit of excitement that he might find himself in a fight that night. It would certainly make the night more interesting, and he loved to tell a good story. Even if his stories were full of improper grammar, nonsensical words, and unusual jargan.

"Yer got a lil crush on her, don't ya?" he laughed.

But then Kam poked Ricky in the chest. He went from Happy to Angry in less than a second as his brows furrowed and his smile ******** off, man," he said as he stretched out one hand against Kam's shoulder, applying some force to shove him away. "The ********> is wrong with you? She ain't yours or nuttin', bra."

Ricky never understood the concept of personal space very well, but he did understand that when someone was getting that close to him, they were trying to either intimidate him or seduce him.

Context was key in deciphering the two.

“No,” Ricky shot back. If Kam had any doubts about Ricky’s unintelligence before, this childish and idiotic response would probably have driven the point home. To be fair, had Ricky been more calm and rational, even he would have been able to realize how stupid of a response that was, but he far too angry to be rational or logical. Ricky may be a white trash, hick a** sleazeball, but don’t you dare call him one. “It ain’t your place to say who she can hang out with, and I sure as hell ain’t no piece of s**t, you curry-sipper.”

He then pushed Kam away from him as he swung a full-throttle heavy fist toward the darker man’s face, aiming right for his nose.

Kam's punch connected with Ricky's right eye, with enough force to topple the southerner over. He fell into the bar, knocking a beer bottle off the counter, its glass shattering on the crappy linoleum behind the bar. The bartender was shouting at them, but the few patrons left in the haunt were screaming their own chants to drown out whatever protests the bartender had.

Ricky peeled himself off the counter and snapped back to his opponent, sending a low-aimed punch aimed for Kam's gut, just above his groin. He let out some sort of scream as he threw the blow, though between his drunkenness, adrenaline and chanting, it was pretty indistinguishable.

One could assume, however, that it was pretty ******** racist.

Ricky was certainly not prepared for that. He and Kam fell to the floor, knocking over another bar stool in the process as the southern man's back slammed to the ground with the darker man's weight on top of him. He wanted to scream in pain, but was too winded from the tackle and the fall to do much of anything but wince.

The bartender was hopping over the counter to break up the fight, but there was a good window of opportunity for Kam to land in a few more punches to Ricky's face if he wanted to.