Not My Style

I'm sitting in a chair, people all around, saying nothing, doing nothing and I realize for the hundredth time tonight that this place just doesn't fit my style.
If anything its the opposite: a tough crowd, seemingly out to get me.
I'm feeling a little defensive.
Feel like there should be a "WANTED" poster in this place, with my face on it.
To my left he explains to me that I don't exactly have the best reputation around here, "not in these parts" and all because I had threatened to break a pool stick over the "next mother fucker's face who touches me," one long ago night, as he explains.
"That didn't really go over well here." He says. "You remember that?"
I remember the moment well enough, I explain. "The fucker wanted to fight and he was asking for it."
"And you were drunk."
But not tonight.
So instead I'm sitting. Quiet again. Thinking that this place is not my style and I have better places to be.
"Great you guys came," he says.
Not really, for me any ways.
"You haven't said much tonight," he says to me. "Not the way you are usually."
"Don't have much to say," I say.
I'm thinking "mayday, mayday" in my head right now- plane is losing control, can't keep the storm at bay.
Some guy is starring at me cold from across the room, pure murder in his eyes. Death. Nothing less. I could see it in his face. He doesn't want me here.
To make matters worse he has company.
I'm surrounded by people but its the Devil that sits across from me, her legs crossed, drinking and laughing.
"Didn't know she'd be here," my friend says.
I think to myself that I remember telling him, my friend, that I never want to see her again.
Now this shit.
I'm in the room and wish I wasn't, lounging, watching, starring aimless at the scene and as it unfolds around me, feeling akward.
The Devil starts making conversation my way, the kind of conversation the Devil would make. The kind that cuts you down.
I'm thinking that I want to get out of here, desperately.
The guy across the room has a fixed gaze, starring at me. He walks up. He says a sly remark, walks away.
"Public enemy number one," I say to myself. But my friend doesn't hear me. I'm invisible to the people I wish I could talk to. Its the contrary with the others.
"Not my style."
This place stinks with revenge and deceit and all the bad things that make me sweat from my head to my feet and I'm thinking that I need to get out of here and on to elsewhere.
Call a taxi, tell the driver: "somewhere, fast."
But I can't.
Tied down. I'm the taxi, the driver tonight. And my friend just left with a girl. I told him earlier: "I won't leave without you."
That's not such a bad idea anymore.
But thats not my style. Not even tonight.
Around midnight I hit the PANIC button. Other people call it the bottle.
And I drink the situation away.
Thats all I have to say about a bad day.