“One time we were in a bar-restaurant,” Payton says. “There’s this giant biker covered in death imagery tattoos, with a scraggly beard and knuckles the size of small melons lorded over his girlfriend, face pressed to hers, yelling and spitting. Everyone could see it was gonna get physical when they were alone, but no one in the bar moved. We’re sitting across, getting ready to step in, and before any of us can, Sage’s already up and gone. Next thing we know, he’s standing between the biker and the girl.”

I’m pretty sure the biker didn’t know what to make of him at first:

an eighteen-year-old kid in a cardigan, a short haircut, and a mustache like Salvador Dalí, just planted there, blocking his path.

The biker threatens him, raises a bottle like he’s gonna make a point.

Sage, like he does, reaches up and twists his mustache, what we call the Snidley Whiplash.

Instead of backing down, Sage steps forward and stares the biker down with pure malice. “I want you to swing that bottle as hard as you possibly can,” he says. He pauses, locks on the guy’s eyes. “Because I guarantee you only get one shot.”

We all get that feeling when someone’s reached the limit of what we can stomach. This biker, used to being king, realizes right quick he’s not the toughest man in the room. He lowers the bottle. Sage gives him that look we know so well. Part of me wants to yell at the biker to run, but apparently, he’s about to get what’s coming.

Sage glances at the girl and sees the thick makeup hiding bruises on her face. He looks back at the biker. “That was for me, but this is for her.” And before the biker can react further, Sage opens up with his patented double- punch to the guy’s face. The biker goes down, stunned. Sage pounds him with everything he’s got until the guy’s cowering and helpless.

That’s when the rest of us jump in, wrap Sage up so he calms down, and stop him before he goes too far. We don’t even want to think about how far he wanted to go.

He cools off almost immediately, shakes us off, and then walks over to the beaten biker. He snags the guy’s wallet from the chain on his back, pulls out his driver’s license, reads it, and slaps it back onto his chest. Then he stares him dead in the eyes. “Well, Marvin, I know where you live now. If I hear one whisper that you touched her again, it’ll be the last thing you ever do.” Marvin doesn’t move.