“You’re just a little butterfly.”

His face inches from mine, I could smell the alcohol on his breath. His eyes, crazed as a drunken stupor glazed over.

Butterflies. In all of history, butterflies have been regarded as weak and helpless, and nothing but a beautiful thing.

Moths however, were strong and resilient, born of night and were graced with wings of death.

I cracked my knuckles, and a scowl bloomed across my features.

“I am not a butterfly, I am a moth.”

My fist connected with his temple and he fell to the floor, unconscious. A voice cried out above the cheers in the bar.

“Thats the seventh time today! How many times do I have to tell these idiots to stay away from my bartenders!”

My boss starts cackling with laughter and I grin.

“Not enough I guess.”