It wasn't the pain that had made him explode into a rage. Caelan hadn't hit him hard enough for that, but just the act of another man hitting him in the face. Dusty used the edge of the table to pull himself to his feet, effectively toppling it and everything on it as he launched himself at Caelan. He hit like a truck, taking Caelan down to the floor, pinning him and gripping his throat in one hand. His other hand was balled so tight his knuckles were white, his jaw clenched as he warred with himself. There wasn't a rational thought ticking in his head, only a blind rage. He hadn't been smacked in the face in a long while and it brought him back to a time when he'd not been able to defend himself. Caelan had unknowingly unlocked a deep rooted insecurity and Dusty tapped into a regular coping mechanism for himself; violence.<br/><br/>Instead of pounding his fist into Caelan's face, Dusty released his fury onto the wooden plank beside the young man's head, three good times before shoving off and storming outside. He'd broken his hand, of that he was certain, but it had hardly been the first time. At least he had enough sense not to veer off last second. Caelan was no real threat to him. He'd made a poor judgement call, getting pissed and hitting him in the face. Dusty had, like usual, overreacted and went off the rails. He needed a moment to calm himself, snatching another beer and lighting himself a cigarette in the darkness. It wasn't the alcohol that made him mean at times. He'd used it as an excuse. Dusty knew better though. He simply had a mean streak, and a rage that, though not so often seen in his older years, was difficult to manage.<br/><br/>Their dinner was ruined. Whatever was left was laying in the floor amongst the shattered glass of the bottles, the table on it's side and Dusty's chair toppled. The cobbler still simmered on the stove, but Dusty was no longer thinking about dessert, sitting on the steps of the old shack as the sounds of nighttime on the bayou set in.