In the hooves of a changeling the bat was a weapon. It made contact with the head of a dark brown bull, named of all things ‘Jersey Shore’, looking for that triple or at worst in ground double. Hell-bent on ending the ‘ling’s life, with whatever means possible, Jersey made contact, although not with his intended target. The cracking sound heard throughout the bar echoed off the high ceiling, but thankfully the bat remained intact. The bull, not as much, as he was sent sprawling onto a table, collapsing the legs along with sending dirty plates and glasses to the floor crashing in symphony with the piano music.