Fight... or Fall?

Deacon rolls to his back, peels his crusty eyes open, blinks several times, his tongue licks the inside of his mouth trying to muster up some moisture... pure cotton. His eyes give way their first image, a ceiling... a good sign, he's indoors. He rolls to his side to examine if the walls have bars, perhaps officer Rourke got him again, he's a good man, just doing his job. "No bars...where am I?" He's urinated his pants of course, and the stench then hits his nostrils, gags a bit, dry heaves, and hefts himself to his feet. He's somehow found himself in an ATM vestibule, checks his wallet, no cash... His hands catch his eye. "What did I do?" Knuckles are scabbing over, bruises are forming, scratches... He gives himself a physical, back is jacked, bruises on the ribs, knees are weak, He takes position on the floor, determined to figure this out. "Did I fight? or fall?" he ponders "Never should of gone to that bar, nothing good ever comes of that place" his mind is circling, "I talked to a girl. she was nice to me" Deacon recollects paying for a whore "I made some friends, they were kind" His mind remembers buying drinks for two college aged men. "They walked me home" flashes of two men hauling him outside the bar, working him over. "Jeremy and Stan, two nice boys" His mind recalls the boys kicking, kneeing, and punching the old drunk, as he does his best to regain his feet. "I must have fell" he smiles. "You old fool, on the way home you tripped and fell, that has to be it!" Deacon hefts himself one last time to his feet, smiles. Checks his surroundings one last time, and a great realization hits him like a ton of bricks. "I don't own an ATM card" Deacon hangs his head, puts all his weight on the door, pushes with great effort, and heads off to find the answers, he doesn't wish to know...