These beautiful men; heavily muscled but somehow soft, gather in a courtyard of sorts. Two of them, shirtless, briefly kiss. Nothing serious, a peck on the cheek between friends. A moment of tenderness before one menacingly raises a wooden folding chair like a tv wrestler. The other recoils at the sight, raising his arms to ask for more time to finish his drink and cigarette before his punishment is inevitably dealt. He stands up straight and drains the last of his alcohol before throwing the bottle hard at the concrete where it smashes and pulling the last of his cigarette then ditching it beside him. He bends over, hunched as stoically as a giant staring down at some miniature firing squad while a third man wearing a grey hoodie darts in to scrounge the not yet done for cigarette from the concrete floor then moves back to his original position to watch the unfolding action. The man with the chair lines up again, then abandoning his threatening stance once more, touches the doomed man’s back tenderly to tell him to bend over still further. He does, then asks his assailant to please not hit his head. “Come on then” begs the gravelly voiced cameraman offscreen impatiently. The attacker begins his countdown. One. Two. Three. He swings the chair unsteadily and hits the man on his behind lightly, like one might paddle a child. This won’t do. He quickly resets, raising the chair again like a baseball bat and lets fly much faster this time, almost throwing the chair at the hunched man who falls to the ground with the force of the impact. On his hands and knees on the concrete amongst the smashed glass of his bottle, the shirtless man grimaces and slowly gets to his feet. A fourth man, wearing a grey long sleeved shirt is already in his place hunched before the chair wielder. The shirtless man takes his place in line. The man with the chair swings it down quickly at the grey shirted man’s back who shuffles forward with the impact but seems otherwise unharmed. The shirtless man takes his original position, back again to be hit again. The man with the chair lifts it high over his head in preparation but tragedy strikes and you see it in slow motion. As he swings the chair down to deliver his final blow to this beautiful man, this man who has done nothing wrong, the chair unfolds. A regular wooden garden chair configured only for sitting swings down and strikes the shirtless man at the two sharp points of its back legs and he immediately collapses. His face is a mixture of shock and pain, the physical mixed with the emotional pain of betrayal at his friend who never meant to hit him that hard. He stares at the concrete on his hands and knees once again, breathing out slowly as he tries to come to terms with what he’s feeling. The man with the chair quickly abandons it as he swoops in to comfort his friend. He never meant to hurt him. He grabs him under his arms in a sort of hug, like an angel pulling a dying soldier from the mud and helps him to his feet.
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