I still held the cosh on my shoulder, ready to strike, the pose usually associated with coppers fending off a mob of protesters.
I doubled over, pretended it hurt more than it did, and dropped the cosh.
With the bigger man off-balance I kicked at the hand holding the stool and brought the cosh into his groin.
I used the cosh to nudge the three floodlights upward, and within seconds the motion sensors got confused and extinguished the bulbs, darkening the alley.
I whipped out the cosh with my right hand and cracked it into the bony part of his wrist.
I gagged at the blow, readied my cosh, but the man was too damn quick.
I donned a baseball cap and allowed a smooth wooden cosh to slide out of my sleeve and sit discreetly in my hand.
The sauce bottle he was holding in his hand like a cosh ready to crack a skull was placed back on the table in front of him.
Traffic was light and the longer I walked the sparsely-populated streets, the more the cosh in my waistband served as a comfort.