Bar Room Brawl

Thank-you and yes I have. They are all on this Road Stories forum, although you may have to dig back for some of them.

 

“Before you do something you will regret, maybe y’all just need to mosey on out of here, and nobody else gets hurt,” Josh said, doing his best Clint Eastwood imitation, a bundle of nerves inside, but keeping his game face on.

This statement brought on hearty laughter from everyone, which did little for Josh’s confidence, but the overconfidence, or even false bravado, of his enemy was a distinct advantage for him. Or at least he tried to convince himself of that.

“Well, that might be about the funniest ###### thing I have ever heard, especially coming from an Arkansas plowboy like you.”

Josh read him like a book. The eye twitch halfway through his last sentence indicated his mind was on his next move, rather than what he was saying. More importantly, Josh picked up on the tightening of his right shoulder and the slight flexing of the right leg on the next to the last syllable, telegraphing the metaphorical, high and tight fast ball.
Josh had his left hand up at shoulder level a half second before his assailant unleashed the belt which he had been not so secretly preparing behind his back.

This was the precise moment that Natalie let out a warning shout, albeit too late to be of use to Josh. At that same moment, the part of his mind that wasn’t currently worried about surviving this potentially life threatening situation took a second to wonder why she hadn’t called 911 by now, or why anybody else hadn’t, for that matter. Maybe this was a just a day in the life at the GatorTail Grille & Lounge and Josh made a decision to take his business elsewhere, should he survive this visit.

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The pain was excruciating; although expected, one can never prepare for the feeling that comes with the wrist suddenly turning back in an unnatural position, the electric jolt travelling through the forearm to the elbow. And if the arm is outstretched, the molten sensation cab find its way to the shoulder as well. An image of St. Louis flashed behind his eyes of catching a line drive from the mound barehanded for the final out in a divisional series. All smiles when he left the field amid a standing ovation,but the evening was spent with his left arm in a tub of ice and his right hand wrapped around a whiskey glass.

The unusual belt buckle was actually a set of brass knuckles attached to metal brackets to secure the leather belt. The biker had made several loops around his hand for a firm grip to lash out the remaining two feet of belt as a bullwhip with a quarter pound of weight at the end.

The thwack was audible throughout the bar as metal met flesh. Despite the numbness Josh felt almost immediately, he gripped the brass knuckles as it were that game saving ball in the ninth inning. Blocking out the pain Josh reacted by taking the offensive, knowing that his hand could become useless in a matter of seconds.

The biker’s sizeable bulk was leaning forward much as a pitcher’s stance in the follow through of a throw. Josh pulled the belt forward with all his might, his tormentor helpless to do anything but follow with the belt cinched around his hand. Josh sidestepped as the man fell toward him, extending his right leg as he did so.​

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The leg trip went according to plan, with the big man crashing headlong into a stout wooden table, the edge catching him squarely across the bridge of the nose as the two nearest table legs shattered under the impact, bringing the table down on one side.

The spraying blood combined with the contents of the overturned beer glasses, sliding in a gory wave down the angle of the tilting table top, glass shattering around the man’s head as his face impacted the grimy linoleum.

Behind Josh, biker number two was already withdrawing a nasty looking buck knife from a sheath under the back of his jacket and stepping forward. Tib sprang into action, elbowing a gawking bystander out of the way as he pushed off on his still powerful legs. The six inch blade was in full view when Tib’s feet left the floor, head down and left arm forming a formidable weapon of his own, setting aside any worry of the blade, focusing on bringing down the menace before him.

Biker number two had managed to bring the knife around to his side, chest level, at the time of impact from the former linebacker. But it was too late to have any illusions of using it. Tib’s forearm could have been a steel bar when it impacted the thug’s sternum, air escaping in a forceful whoosh from his lungs.

Before the deflated man could even consider collapsing, Tib’s head came up like a piston into the exposed chin, snapping the neck back like a green branch, blood escaping the corners of the hapless biker’s mouth, a result of biting down on his own tongue as he slipped into unconsciousness.​

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Tib's momentum caused him to ride his adversary on down to the unforgiving tile floor. Inches from the man's face, he clearly heard the impact of skull against concrete, like a watermelon hurled into a brick wall. He knew he was too late to defend himself when he sensed movement just beyond his range of vision, remembering too late as well there was a third man on the loose.

Number one may have been down, but he wasn't out. As Josh turned to admire the damage he had inflicted, he felt a meaty hand grasping an ankle. Another hand went into the front of his jeans, pulling him forward. Totally off balance, all he could do was pinwheel his arms in vain as he fell toward the floor. Throwing out his hands to break his fall, a fresh jolt of pain shot up his already injured left arm.


He had the awareness to roll away from the big, angry man on the floor, but it wasn't enough to escape him. Apparently the broken nose did little to affect his reactions, for the enraged biker moved with surprising agility for a person of his size. He was on top of Josh in a second, large hands wrapped around his throat. His left leg had Josh's right arm pinned to his side. Josh swung with his only available hand, nearly completely numb with pain to the side of his opponent's head. The blows were ineffectual. Josh thought he saw the big man grinning, either from the weak punches or from the fun he was having choking the life out of somebody.

Biker number three, having left his own buck knife in his saddlebags, grabbed the most opportune weapon available, a half full, glass beer pitcher. Tib felt the cool liquid splash his face as he caught the reflection of the glass vessel being raised over his head.​

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Things aren't looking too good for our dynamic duo.

Will Josh suffocate on the barroom floor?

Will Tib get his brains bashed in with a glass pitcher?

Was anybody thoughtful enough to dial 911 for the cops to show up and save the day?

Find out next week for the exciting conclusion!

As usual, thanks for reading.

 

So this is how it allends, on a dirty floor in a southern Louisiana honkytonk. I have a college education, almost enough money to put half down on a new house, a beautiful fiancée and just turned thirty-two three days ago. I should have taken a quick shower, thrown my getaway bag in my pickup and headed for Arkansas when my shift was over. I would be a hundred miles closer to my girl and my loyal lab. But here I am getting the life choked out of me by a ghoul that outweighs me by fifty pounds because I tried to defend the honor of a total stranger. Mama always said doing the right thing was rarely the easiest, but right or not, I should have minded my own business and walked the hell on outa here.

Those were the thoughts going through Josh’s mind as he looked through blurry eyes at the face of Benjamin Stokes, aka Stork, a two time loser from Oakland, California and a devoted member of the Outlaws MC. Josh saw the tobacco stained teeth, the saliva draining from the corner of his mouth, the oily perspiration on his forehead, and the white scar that ran through his left eyebrow into his hairline above the temple.

There was no more pain. There was an almost euphoric sensation as his body seemingly gave up its quest for oxygen. He remembered hearing somewhere that a drowning person felt that release as their lungs filled with water. His last thought was the absurdity of that notion as no one could possibly come back to report that, as his world started turning from shades of gray to black.​

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Enough of this crap. I ain't livin' in fear no more and I dang sure ain't standin' here watching them boys die because they was the only ones in here man enough to stand up to these white trash hoods. I can't predict how this is gonna turn out, but no matter what happens, life dang sure can't get no worse for me.

Natalie's uncle, Cletus Benoit was the proprietor of the GatorTail Grille & Lounge and she considered him the most evil man in the parish. Her late papa always told her the borrower is slave to the lender, said he read it in the bible, although Natalie just took his word on that, not that she was known for following his advice anyway.

Ten months ago she borrowed eight thousand dollars from Clete and paid cash for a bright red Mustang that just shouted sex appeal. She just knew that sexy ride would make her life complete. With her good paying job in HR at the paper mill and living rent free with her mama, she was planning to pay him six hundred dollars a month for fifteen months. Being blood kin only goes so far where interest is concerned.

Natalie never made the first payment. After picking up the car on a Wednesday, she spent Friday night partying at the clubhouse with Stork and company, just one of an endless series of poor decisions she has ever made, but one of the most disastrous.

The bathtub crank burned like battery acid in her nostrils but it sure knocked the Jack Daniels loose from her brain and the cold Jax beer in the brown, long necked bottles took the bitter, chemical odor from the back of her throat. The combination also helped her forget the amazing physical feats she performed for these boys to pay her drug bill. She made the decision to drive home, knowing it wasn't wise, but could no longer tolerate the company she was in and darn sure didn't relish the thought of waking up next to one or more of them.

The last line she did invigorated her, filling her with false confidence in her driving ability. Thus far she had been gentle with all that horsepower, but now seemed the perfect time to stretch her out, fill her ears with the deep exhaust note at high RPMs. It was three in the morning and there was no other traffic on the old parish road through the Bayou Teche. Never looking at the speedometer, Natalie had no idea she was doing over a hundred by the time she had wound up third gear on the narrow, two lane highway.

She had only a vague recollection of the small doe that sprang from the underbrush, her young fawn close behind. She never felt the impact, but lost sight of the highway with the doe having crashed through her windshield, the deer's head practically on the steering wheel. Even after lifting her foot from the accelerator, the Mustang ate up the hundred yards to the sharp curve ahead in just over a second, sending Natalie and her unfortunate passenger headlong into the swamp. Despite water, muck and assorted vegetation slowing the car immensely, the Mustang was still carrying enough speed for the ancient cypress tree to place the engine between the leather bucket seats.

Of course Natalie didn't bother to purchase insurance, thinking that was only necessary with bank loans. And Clete still needed to be paid, which would be difficult without a job. News travels fast in a small town and despite the lack of an actual arrest, her employer wasn't impressed with her off time activities.

Now she was working it off in the GatorTail. Clete kept half of her meager salary and demanded half of her tips as well. She managed to hide some of her tips, rarely getting caught at it, but this was one such time when she did.

[LEFT]Clete was an old associate of the Outlaws, allowing them to openly sell their illicit product in his parking lot. He was also buds with the corrupt parish sheriff, the same one that let her slide on the DUI and related charges, as a favor to Clete. After all, how would he get such cheap labor if she were in jail? The same sheriff who wouldn't respond to any 911 calls to the GatorTail unless the call was from Clete himself. The same sheriff who was an associate of the Outlaws and received a cut of the proceeds of their business to look the other way.

[LEFT][LEFT]Being in a festive mood, Clete allowed the bikers to "punish" Natalie for hiding tips. He left the premises before they began with the twofold purpose of deniability and to visit a prostitute in Baton Rouge.

[LEFT][LEFT]"No more! No ###### more!" Natalie screamed, mostly to herself, as she scooped up Stork's belt from the floor beside him and began swinging the heavy chunk of brass in circles above her head like a crazed, medieval knight going into battle with a spiked, iron ball on the end of a chain.[/LEFT]
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So much for the timely delivery of that promise. Next week I swear!
Thanks for your patience.