The bar sat off Chef Menteur Highway in a strip that time forgot, neon beer signs flickering over cracked vinyl booths and a jukebox that hadn’t taken a new song since Katrina. Thursday night, half the crowd was still wearing work boots, the other half LSU jerseys like it was Saturday in Tiger Stadium. At the corner of the bar, a big man in a faded red-and-black plaid shirt nursed a Fireball on the rocks. Beard like he’d just walked out of the bush, knuckles scarred from something colder than Louisiana could ever throw at him. He minded his own, quiet as fresh snow. Two stools down, a local in a purple-and-gold #7 jersey was already three Hurricanes deep, the tall glass sweating red in his hand. He kept eyeing the plaid shirt like it had personally insulted his mama. “Yankee motherfucker,” he finally barked, loud enough for the whole bar to hear. “Come down here wearin’ that checkered shit thinkin’ you own the place?” The big man took a slow sip, didn’t even turn his head. “Not a Yankee, bud.” “Bullshit. Only Yankees wear that lumberjack-ass plaid.” The LSU fan slid off his stool, chest puffed like a bantam rooster. “Stand up when you talk to me, boy.” The bartender started to say something, thought better of it. Big man sighed, set the Fireball down gentle, and stood. Six-five easy, shoulders wide enough to block the neon. “Yukon,” he said, voice flat as a frozen lake. “That’s all you get.” “Hurricane comin’ for your ass,” the local slurred, and swung a wild right that carried every ounce of 120-proof courage he had. It never landed. The Yukon man moved just enough, caught the fist mid-air like snaring a mosquito, and drove one short, clean punch into the LSU fan’s solar plexus. Sounded like a boot on wet snow. The local dropped straight to his knees, mouth open, trying to remember how lungs worked. Bar went quiet except for the jukebox clicking over to some old Tab Benoit. The big man sat back down, signaled the bartender for another Fireball, and went back to staring at the TV like nothing happened. Bartender poured, shook his head, and muttered, “Told y’all not to fuck with Canadians.”