a death scene

It seemed Darrach had made a fatal mistake. A trip to the bar on a Friday night was normally not such a big deal, but Darrach always liked to test his limits. That is why he walked into the toughest bar in town. The moment he entered the door it was clear that his clean-shaven face and designer jeans were not going to fit in at this place. He walked up to the bar, only to be ignored by the bartender. He cleared his throat. "Can I get some service around here?"
The bartender reached over the bar and grabbed him around the throat, "What do you want boy?!"
"Whisky." Darrach managed to choke.
The bartender glared and mixed what looked like a very watered down drink, "Drink up and get out."
Things went down hill from there. He got up to go, taking a crisp 5 from his wallet. "It's seven." the bartender growled.
He reached for a 10 instead, "Keep the change."
He walked for the exit, past men smoking Cubans and playing pool. They were big men, with leather and chains. Darrach suspected the bikes out front belonged to them. Just as he reached the exit a hand grabbed his shoulder. A rough, unfamiliar voice came from behind, "What's your hurry, kid?"
"I didn't get the impression that I was wanted here." Darrach replied, perhaps over-confidently.
"Stick around." the voice said.
"Really?" Darrach asked, beginning to turn around. A left hook caught in the jaw and next thing he knew he was lying in the street. He tried to stand up, but was met with another fist to the face. He tried to stay calm. A crowd was forming. He needed a plan to escape. He tried to look around but a kick to the chest made him uncertain on his bearings. Crap, thought Darrach, I'm going to die. Through his hazy vision he saw a man who looked half-ogre standing before him. He had broad shoulders, and thick dark hair on his arms and face. His t-shirt had a skull on it and had slits in it. This guy had been in fights before and won. Darrach made a rash decision he was going to ram the guy. He crouched and sprinted head on at his adversary. He never made it. The man held his head at arms length making Darrach swing at the air like a little boy. People in the gathering crowd laughed.
Damn it, Darrach thought, I'm in trouble this time.
This was likely an understatement. The large man shoved Darrach back to the ground and drew a knife.
Darrach began to see his life flash before his eyes as the man walked forward. What a failure he had been. He found himself doing something very uncharacteristic, praying. Please God, give me a second chance. I've been such a screw up so far. Please, it's too soon.
The man was so close he could smell his sweat and the alcohol on his warm breath. He raised the knife, aiming for Darrach's chest.
Suddenly, his attacker keeled over backwards, clutching at his heart. Darrach could do nothing but stare. Could this be happening? In a few short seconds Darrach realized the man was either dead or dying. His buddies suddenly had looks of concern and alarm and came rushing forward to aid him. Darrach did the one thing he was good at, and ran as fast as he could away from that place!
It would be great if it could be said that he was true to his word and that he became a good person, but stories rarely end like that.