Disclaimer: Blah blah blah. No profit. Blah blah. Cyclops ain't mine. Blah blah. Wolvie's not mine either (pity). Blah blah. Would like him to be. Blah blah…etc., and so forth and all that guff. I can, and do, lay claim to Jessica, Sal, Hitch, Soho and the multitude of extremely piddled off extras populating this scene.
Apologies for this chapter being later than anticipated. Blame it on my Kentucky Fried, Motherboarding Processor and the fact that one tiny little flashback paragraph got stretched to almost (but not quite) 8000 words.
This time I've done a hatchet job on a General sahf London accent (please note this is not an attempt at anything vaguely Cockney, just your basic working class or blue collar Londoner).
Mythbuster. No, we Brits do not drink warm beer. We prefer it cold just like everyone else. And just in case anyone wants to know, there is such a beer as A Over T. :0)
Thanks to Dee (MidLifeCrisis), joegood2003, Dr. Nat, dayrunner 145, Sonder, Joruk, Taluliaka, chris-warren876, firefly750, Skye and Magdalena for their encouraging reviews.
Chapter 9: Dirty Dancing
Oil, gasoline, transmission fluid, plastic, rubber, metal and grease. The basic ingredients of a typical garage and workshop fug is universal. What makes every mix unique is the scent of the people hanging out there. Percolating through this particular miasma is the dual essence of alpha-jerk and antiseptic. Summers is working late. I can't see him but I can hear him tinkering with his bike in one of the service bays. There are worse ways to pass the time. My attention's fixed on finding more stimulating ones.
Moving swiftly but quietly, I head for the small office where the service records and ignition keys are kept. No point driving anything flashy where I'm going so I snag the keys for one of the Jeeps. As I weave my way through the motor pool to my vehicle Summers chooses that moment to add material substance to his pervading scent. He's wearing a grubby boiler suit that reeks of grease and dirty engine oil. The filthy rag he's using to wipe his hands clean of grease ain't up to the job and only succeeds in smearing the stuff to a dull, even sheen instead. Ruby quartz goggles have replaced his visor.
"Going somewhere?" It's the same scathing tone he'd use on a kid caught trying to skip class. Obviously he reserves it for Dumb Pride activists too.
"Nah, I've come here to practice my pas de deux. What else would I do with a fucking ignition key in a garage full of cars?"
Summers stuffs the rag into a hip pocket and briefly turns away, grimacing his displeasure. Then, expression carefully composed, he slowly enunciates his next question as if I'm simple or hard of hearing.
"What is your problem, Logan?"
Ain't it obvious?
"I got some numbnuts dickweed standing between me and my next cold beer." What is it about this guy that brings out the cynical bastard in me?
"That's real cute. How did you get to become such an obnoxious asshole?"
Summers really needs to get this irony thing nailed down. I shrug. "Osmosis?"
His laugh is short, humourless and incredulous. "Like you actually know what that means?"
"You'd be surprised at what I know," I reply dismissively. "What's this fucking inquisition shit anyway? If there's a point to this conversation tell me now or I'm outta here."
Here comes the lecture. "Treating the faculty like so much crap is bad enough but children...? You threw Rahne MacTaggert into the fountain. And then you frightened the life out of her by baring your teeth and growling at her like some wild animal."
Wonder which part of 'Rahne MacTaggert is an out of control mutant werewolf' shit for brains is having difficulty with? Boy Scout delivers his diatribe with precise, clipped articulation, his holier than thou fury held in check by his iron self control. Spoken like a true school teacher. Too bad for him I ain't a fucking kid.
"Yeah, so what?" I've already successfully defended my actions to both Xavier and Moira. Ain't about to explain myself again.
"Behaviour of this sort is totally unacceptable."
"Fine. Next time the half-pint gets pissed off and wolfs out I'm more'n happy to let her play monster mash with your balls. Anything else?"
He stares at me as if taking my measure for the first time. Finally he reaches a decision. "Yes, there is. Wait here."
Summers stalks off and disappears into the office. I can hear him opening a draw and rummaging through it. He emerges with a cell phone in his greasy hand.
"Take this. The team's officially on stand-by and you need to be contactable if anything goes down."
Although I've attended training sessions this is the first time Summers has ever verbally acknowledged I'm a member of the team. It's probably the closest thing to an apology I'm likely to receive. Hope he don't think I'm gonna go all misty eyed over it.
"Uh, thanks." I take the phone and flip it open. Never owned one of these things. Hell, I've never had anyone to call before. The keypad is similar to that of Rogue's cell so I have some idea how the thing works. I press a few buttons randomly because I know it's gonna annoy the crap outta him.
"Has anyone ever told you that the reason people believe you're such an unmitigated dumb-ass is because you act the part to perfection?"
Trying hard not to crack my face here. It's so fucking easy baiting One-eye it ain't hardly even a sport. The guy seriously needs to loosen up before he requires major surgery to unclench.
"No one who survived the encounter," I reply, holding the cell to my ear. No dial tone. How can it be a real phone with no dial tone?
Summers shakes his head as if resigning himself to my intransigence. "There's a meeting in the strategy room at oh eight thirty tomorrow. Don't be late."
Wow, do I get to see Summers play with that amazing holo-map again? Can hardly wait. "I won't. You still got a headache?"
"What's it to you?"
"Some old fashioned anaesthesia will do wonders for it. Ya might even get lucky. Wanna join me?"
Priceless! Summers couldn't look more stunned if I'd just up and French kissed him. Is this a milestone Kodak moment or what?
Taking the rag out of his pocket he begins to smear the grease more diligently, his brow creased into a frown of concentration. I don't believe it. One-eye is actually considering the invitation.
Finally, "I appreciate the offer but I don't drink alcohol and I'm not ready…really in the mood for…uh company right now. And I'd like to get the bike finished tonight. Thanks anyway."
"Then you deserve the pain."
"You're all heart. Now get the fuck out of here."
No argument from me.
-o0o-
The Auger Inn is a rowdy cesspit where the crap drifts about on two legs. Dealers, fences, pimps, it's got 'em all and they're the nice guys. Then there's the more hardcore clientele, bikers, hookers, hustlers, hard drinkers, headbangers; my kind of scum. Live hard, play harder. These guys generally have a low expectation of life but understand how to have a good time. Like I said, my kind of scum.
Breath laden cigarette smoke hangs in the air like a greasy blue aerosol and clings to clothing, hair and skin with the tenacity of a pitbull. In dead zones it forms layered wreaths that swirl like dust devils when caught in the wake of a passing body. Sal really oughta invest in a new extraction system or at least open a fucking window. Never before have I met a guy so reluctant to allow fresh air to contaminate the ambience of a shit hole. Here the sour stink of sweat, vomit, stale beer, emotional excretions, neglected restrooms and unwashed feet almost has its own pseudo-entity. I swear that one of these days it'll take solid form and shake me by the hand when I walk through the door.
Why do I come here and torture my acute senses? Because Sal keeps the best and strongest craft beers for miles around and for that I can breathe through my mouth or suck in air through a stogie for a few hours.
The place don't really get buzzing until after ten but it's lively tonight 'coz it's Saturday. I've played a handful of friendly pool games and ain't had to buy a beer yet. That's gonna change real soon 'coz the new waitress has been giving me the surreptitious eye since I walked in the joint. She's a real babe, late twenties at a guess, with long hair the colour of wild honey, deep blue eyes and a figure that would get Hugh Hefner drooling into his Evian. Wonder what her story is? If she's working her way through college or trying to support kids why chose a downmarket rat hole like this? With looks like hers she could be raking it in as a club hostess or working in one of those classier wine bars. Maybe she just likes slumming. Ain't here for the company though 'coz she's given at least a dozen horny guys the arctic fuck off in the last half hour. Her eyes are alive, not hooker hard and calculating. Seems clear to me she's here to sling booze, earn a little scratch and go home. She's an enigma. Nice women don't work in dives like this. Do they?
And I ain't in the market for a nice woman right now, just a good one.
"Hey handsome, wanna buy me a drink?"
Looking over my shoulder my gaze falls on a gaunt, lank haired apparition. Never seen her before tonight but I know she didn't arrive alone. The hollow eyed creature looks at me hopefully, her dry lipped smile a crooked razor slash linking her sallow, sunken cheeks. She stinks of sweat, disease, crack and desperation. It's hard to tell but she's young, younger than the honey behind the bar. Before the drugs ravaged her body she might even have been pretty.
"If I do will ya promise to piss off and leave me alone?"
Sounds harsh, but her crackhead boyfriend has disappeared from view, probably lurking in the car park to roll the idiot she drags outside on an offer to go bash the bricks. Besides, screwing that would be like screwing the living dead and I'm never gonna be desperate enough to find her appealing.
"Fuck you, asshole."
"Not in this lifetime, skank."
A couple nursing beers at a nearby table laugh and I glare at them. They lose interest in me and pay closer attention to their drinks. The crackhead broad beats a retreat but doesn't exactly storm away, more scuds with intent in the direction of a drunk biker across the room. Not anyone I know so he's on his own. Besides, he looks like he can handle himself.
"What a waste."
A guy clutching a shot glass half full of liquor in one hand and a cue in the other is heading my way. His tone is friendly conversational but I don't know him from Adam.
"'Scuse me?"
"That kid. Had her life ruined just so some scumbag drug lord can buy his whore a new dress."
This guy a social worker or what? "I didn't twist her arm so why should I give a fuck?"
He ain't as tall as me, maybe five eleven. I give his age at mid to late thirties. African American with skin tone several shades darker than 'Ro's. Looks like his nose has been mashed good and fairly recently too. Beneath the jeans, Tee and leather jacket he's got the body and bearing of a jarhead but it's the regulation haircut that gives him away. I can't smell gun oil, cordite, base scent or anything else for that matter 'coz the aftershave he's wearing is so strong it hits me like a corrosive fucking shock wave. When the full force of it's taint infiltrates my nose it goes exothermic on my membranes and my eyes begin to water. The stink adheres to his clothes and seems to permeate his skin but has difficulty escaping his personal gravity well which is weird. Maybe the worst of it has already evaporated. Up close whatever it is, it's sickening. My healing factor compensates; barely.
"Jeezus, what the fuck did ya splash on? CS gas?" So what if the guy gets all offended and punchy. I ain't half as offensive as his aftershave so I don't give a shit.
GI Joe looks startled. "Something my girlfriend bought me for Christmas. Is it really that bad?"
"Ya can't smell it?" Christ, what did he do to piss her off, crush a litter of kittens?
He taps the side of his nose. "I walked into a Republican Guard gun butt in Kirkuk. Can't smell much. Can't taste much either."
"Tough call," I choke, "You a marine?" He damn well looks like one.
"Was. Medical discharge ten months ago. Wanna game? Beers on the side?"
"Sure, if ya can manage to stay downwind of me." Suddenly, the Auger fug don't smell so bad anymore.
The guy laughs. "Name's Steve Hitchin but people call me Hitch."
"Logan," I grunt.
"That your first or last name?"
"Yeah."
"Right." He grins knowingly. "Rack 'em, up, Logan and let's play us some pool."
Hitch proves to be a formidable opponent and wins the first game. Ain't unhappy 'bout that 'coz now I can check out the classy chassis behind the bar.
"What's yer poison?" I enquire, my gaze straying towards the bar.
"They have Molson?"
"Yeah. Canadian or Export?"
"Canadian. Can't really taste it but I'll get more buzz for your bucks." Hitch laughs at his own joke.
Can do better'n that. "You want a beer with more buzz then go for Ass Over Tit. It's an acquired taste but that ain't gonna bother ya none."
Arching an eyebrow he asks, "Ass Over Tit? Who the hell calls a beer that?"
"It's a British export I've developed a liking for. Twice as much alcohol content as Molson's so it ain't called Ass Over Tit for nothing." The extra strong European craft brews Sal keeps in his cellar are what pull the customers in, me included.
Hitch pulls a face. "Isn't British beer served warm?"
"Not since they discovered refrigeration."
"Then educate me."
I muscle my way to the new girl's end of the bar. Unsurprisingly, she's popular with the patrons so I have to wait my turn. It's almost ten and the bar's beginning to fill up. My ears ring as a cymbal crashes to the floor close by. There's some inventive cursing for accompaniment. The band's arrived and they're struggling to set up their instruments on the makeshift stage. Half of them are drunk and the rest are high as kites on meth. Since they're an AC/DC tribute band guess no one's gonna notice much difference when they start playing.
Eventually, it's my turn to be served and Sal's star attraction smiles at me expectantly. In the scheme of things all women have the same basic physical attributes, it's the proportion that varies wildly. And does this broad have proportions. The way she fills her jeans and her skimpy, lavender blue tank top is nothing short of spectacular. Great body tone too. She works hard at keeping herself fit. If she does it for effect then she's mining a rich seam 'coz the lust oozing from the guys ogling her is so thick it's almost tangible.
"What's your pleasure, hon?" Her voice is husky and as sensuous as her lips.
Now there's a loaded question. Ya really want an answer to that, honey? The way those luscious pink lips are curved into a smile makes me want to explore them with my own. It's a struggle dragging my gaze away but when I do I find I'm drowning in her come get me eyes. Her scent, while not exactly screaming take me now, definitely carries an aroma of aroused interest. I think she likes me.
Can't remember ever being so completely smitten by a piece of skirt; Gotta get a grip. "Coupla AOTs, darlin'," I reply casually.
She turns away, and snags a couple of bottles from a low shelf. A chorus of appreciative cat-calls and wolf whistles sets up and I almost join in myself. That gal has a damn fine ass and suddenly I'm imagining what that firm flesh would feel like in my hands. A drunken bastard who looks like a walrus and smells like a camel's butt, mouths off and shatters my line of thought. I know he's been hitting on her for a while and she keeps brushing him off. Some dickwads are too fucking stupid to take no for an answer.
"Hey babe, how come this faggot rates a 'hon' and I don't?"
She straightens up, a bottle in each hand. Her blue eyes are chips of sapphire ice and glitter dangerously. I can feel her anger but she ain't cowed by any of these cocksuckers.
"Because you don't rate at all, bozo."
His buddies laugh, enjoying the floor show at his expense.
"Fuck'n bitch," he slurs.
"Maybe, but I'm not your bitch, asshole."
She's got some cojones standing up to him like that but she could be banking a whole lot of trouble for herself later on.
"Ain't a good idea to encourage scum like that darlin'," I warn her quietly. "Nice girl like you can find yerself in deep water real quick."
"Well this girl knows how to look out for herself but thanks for the advice."
I believe her. The girl's confident and as cool as ice. It ain't gonna stop her getting hurt though.
Placing a couple of bottles on the counter she says, "That's ten fifty, hon." I pay her.
"Things get outta hand I'm just over there 'kay?" I nod towards the pool table area.
"Sure." She makes to turn away and then changes her mind. Maybe it's because I'm the only guy she's served that hasn't hit on her. Or maybe because she sees something she likes. "Look, fella, I've got a break coming up soon. I don't fancy keeping company with Sal's roaches or these creeps. Mind if I join you, maybe shoot some pool?"
Do I mind the company of a drop dead gorgeous hottie? Easy tiger, don't scare her off with some lame pick up line. She obviously has zero tolerance for assholes. Just play it cool. "Not at all, darlin'. You come on over in yer own sweet time."
"Thanks. And it's Jessica."
I got her name and the promise of her company without asking. Things are definitely looking good. "Logan," I reciprocate with a smile.
"Hey, lover," a familiar voice spits out. "Why bother with the queen heifer when there's a real woman right here." The crackhead waif insinuates herself into the redneck's personal space and glares at me defiantly, her slash of a smile looking like someone's split her face with an axe. "I don't got no problem sorting the real men from the limp dick bitches."
"'Zat right," Camel-butt leers, his bloodshot eyes bulging from his flabby flesh like diseased oysters. C'm 'ere girl and let's test the goods."
Guess her beta target didn't play out the way she'd hoped. Guy must be smarter than he looked. Like a fly in a field of cow chips she's selected another toothsome morsel and this one ain't too fussy. Hope the bastard's got a thick skull 'coz he's gonna need it if he falls for the line she's feeding him. By the way he's now hungrily groping her breasts and slobbering her ear with his tongue, the moron's already taken the bait hook, line and sinker. I leave him to his fate. Call it karma for the crap he's dished out to Jessica.
"Here ya go." I hand Hitch a bottle.
"Thanks." He takes a slug, smacks his lips and a happy smile cracks his face. "Hey, I can actually taste it, sort of. Must get me a crate or ten of this stuff."
We're halfway through the next game when Jessica elbows a path towards us. She's carrying three bottles, two AOTs and what looks like a Grolsch. This stuff don't come cheap and Sal don't exactly overpay his staff.
"Ya shouldn't have…" I begin.
"On the house. What Sal doesn't see he isn't gonna weep over."
"Thanks," I say, never one to turn down a freebie.
"Who's your friend, Logan?"
Hitch answers for himself. "Steve Hitchin. Friends call me Hitch but you can just call me."
Jessica's perfect lips quirk into a smile. "I'll take that as a compliment rather than a proposition, okay?"
They both laugh. I finish the last of my beer and wonder if I can punch Hitch's lights out without anyone noticing.
Jessica lines up the fresh beers along the edge of the pool table. Hitch reaches over, brushing her with his arm, and nabs one. Such close proximity causes Jessica to wrinkle her nose and grimace her revulsion.
"Christ, is that cat's piss I can smell?" Jessica looks around for the source of the stink.
Hitch looks sheepishly at her. "Sorry, it's my aftershave. Guess my sense of smell is deader than I thought."
"Gift from his girlfriend," I add meaningfully. Never hurts to neutralise any opposition does it?
"She must really hate you," Jessica commiserates.
Hitch grins. "Ya think?"
The rock band's leader grabs the mic and slurs something intelligible into it. There's the ubiquitous one, two three countdown and then the first chords are struck. The boom boxes have gotta be amped to the max and it feels like I'm ringside to a nuclear detonation. The entire building resonates like a bell and I swear I can feel my organs begin to liquefy under the sonic assault. Self preservation and damage limitation clear a blast radius of several feet around the stage. The noise is pure torture and people are cursing and clamping hands over their ears. I'm one of 'em. Sal shoots out from his office mouthing obscenities that even he can't possibly hear and motions them to crank it down. They oblige and the decibel level drops from fucking excruciating to vaguely painful.
Conversation's still for shit though.
"Fuck, we could've used these pussies in Iraq," Hitch yells with feeling.
"Iraq ain't far enough away for 'em," I growl.
Jessica leans in to me and half shouts, "My break will be over soon. Want to dance?"
Not particularly but since it's you that's doing the asking, darlin'. I nod and rest my pool cue against the table.
Finish this game afterwards, 'kay?"
Hitch nods, fixing me with a sly you lucky bastard smirk. I can feel his hot stare burning into my back as I escort the curvaceous Jessica onto the impromptu dance floor, basically an amorphous space hastily cleared of tables. Half the customers, some drunk, most on their way to that happy state, take to the floor and begin to gyrate and grind to the furious beat. Jessica is heading for the centre of the pulsating mass of sweaty humanity but I hold her back, preferring the periphery.
She smiles and begins to sway, the undulations of her hips and shoulders accentuating her perfect curves. Jeezus fucking Christ! The way this girl moves is amazing. Sinuous, sexy, seductive, precisely how I imagine she'd writhe if she were under me. She turns her head to one side, eyes closed and I catch glimpses of the creamy arch of her neck through her hair. Still swaying sensuously she loosely crosses her arms as if hugging herself, hands framing her exposed navel. Her scent, now heavy with the musk of passion, drives me wild. I spin her around so she's facing away from me and fold my arms around her, holding her as close as a second skin, burying my face in her neck and breathing in her fragrance. Her ass brushes my groin and I feel a shiver run through her as she discovers she ain't the only one feeling hot. Leaning her head on my shoulder she looks up at me, her eyes dark and wanton.
"Wanna get outta here?" My voice is husky with need. Ain't been with a woman since before Jeannie died. Ain't really wanted to until I saw Jessica. Casual sex, while it scratches an itch, is so fucking impersonal and meaningless. Jeannie showed me there's more to life than applied biology, that there's a world of difference between fucking a woman and making love to her. There's something special about Jessica, something elusive and indefinable. She deserves better than to be used as a one night stand. I want to make love to the beautiful creature in my arms. And not just tonight.
It ain't simple lust I'm feeling. Her pheromones are intoxicating, playing havoc with my libido but that could be down to my grief imposed celibacy. She's a complete stranger yet I want to be with her so much I ache. I don't understand this compulsion, hell, she ain't even a mutant. I'm primed to run blindfolded into unexplored territory and it's scaring the bejesus outta me.
She twists her body around and suddenly I'm gazing into her upturned face. "I've got to finish my shift first. Sal won't pay me if I don't."
"No worries, darlin'." I ain't gonna insult her by offering her cash. "We can find somewhere to eat if ya like."
"That would be nice." She smiles showing perfect white teeth. "I finish at midnight."
Out of the corner of my eye I see the mass of dancers parting like the Red Sea as a bare-armed foursome of badasses, clad in leather, chains and denim, force their way through, making a beeline in my direction. They're bikers but not local ones. According to the colours on their leather vests these creeps hail all the way from Atlantic City. Musta took a wrong turning or something.
"The lady's mine, meathead. Get yer fuckin' paws off of her."
Mister convivial is a big fucker with a depressingly unoriginal assortment of 'mean bastard' tattoos down his arms, the body of an overweight Buddha, a beard like a porcupine's ass and a shaved head pitted with scars. While some of his bulk is lard there's also a lot of muscle and he parades it like a playground bully. His three buddies are almost as big, just as tattooed and twice as ugly and that, in itself, is saying something because their buddy is one ugly, motherfucking scumbag.. They're all taller and wider than me, their faces set into menacing don't fuck with me glowers, their hands scrunched into meaty fists. I could take the fucking lot of 'em down without breaking into a sweat.
I look the leader of the pack up and down, taking my time and making certain he knows I ain't in awe and he sure as hell don't scare me. His swaggering bravado is genuine cock o' the walk. He's got his cheerleaders, the Fugly Sisters, and there's just one of me so he's gushing confidence by the barrel. None of us are fixing to back off so there's only one way this encounter's gonna end. I put myself between Jessica and harm's way.
"This piece of scum-sucking shit got any claim on ya, darlin'?" I enquire, not taking my eyes off the dickheads confronting me.
"Nuh uh!" Jessica retorts as she swamps our immediate area with the scent of disgust. "Never laid eyes on the lardass scuzzball in my life."
I smile humourlessly at the lardass scuzzball. "Lady says yer a liar, bub."
The dancers and drinkers closest to our little group have grown still and quiet and I can smell the heat of anticipation hanging heavy in the smoky air. News of an impending fight slowly spreads through the crowd like a silent Mexican wave as heads slowly turn towards the impromptu entertainment.
"Then I guess I'd better teach her a lesson," Scuzzy grates as his lips writhe into and unholy grin that reveals yellow, decayed stumps. His halitosis is nothing short of biological warfare.
"Fuck yeah, Jerry," one of the fugly sisters rumbles mockingly. "Guess we're all gonna enjoy teaching her that lesson." He shucks his crotch with his hand to emphasise his intention. This fucker is gonna be carried out on a stretcher.
"Right after I've torn his fuckin' head clean off," Jerry leers nastily.
Like that's gonna happen.
As Scuzzbucket speaks one of his sausage sized fingers begins to jab out every syllable on my chest like it was Morse code. Big mistake. My mocking aggression erupts into violence and I seize his offending limb, squeezing with brutal force until I feel and hear bones snap.
Scuzzball howls in agony and falls to his knees, tears forming little beads of water that trickle down his face and festoon his beard, glistening like dew.
"My hand! Ya broke my fuckin' hand!"
"Boo fucking hoo! Now beat feet, shitwit, while ya still got the use of yer legs." Can't say I didn't warn him.
Several things happen at once. Scuzzball's shriek alerts more of his buddies and they start pushing their way through the crowd. A second group gathered at the opposite end of the bar also head resolutely in this direction, some of the local boys by the smell of 'em. The crowd takes a collective deep breath and draws back, fearful of being sucked into the impending violence. The atmosphere becomes charged with expectancy and a growing sense of bloodlust that almost crackles like electricity. The whole room begins to reek like a cage fight venue. I can smell Hitch's overwhelming aftershave growing in intensity behind me. The fuglies fan out, giving themselves room to swing at me from several sides simultaneously, striking simian style brawl postures. Tension mounts and my nose is assaulted by a plethora of hormonal and emotional emissions, both from the crowd, the fuglies and Jessica.
Completely oblivious of the fact they've lost the attention of the audience, the band plays on.
"You'll be safer across the bar, sweetheart," I hear Hitch whisper.
"I can take care of myself," Jessica hisses back.
Ain't got time for this. Without taking my eyes off the opposition I tell Jessica to clear the area. "Do what he says, darlin'. I don't want ya getting hurt."
"No, really, I can take care of myself," she insists, her tone brittle with exasperation. I don't smell any fear drifting off her, just determination.
Crotch-grabber pulls a knife from a sheath concealed beneath his vest. As knives go it's fucking impressive, the forged equivalent of going loaded for bear. Pity he don't know how to hold it properly. I refrain from unsheathing my claws because this is a place I wanna come back to.
"Go with the fagola, honey," he leers, "He can keep ya cosy an' safe while I carve his fuckbuddy's liver into steaks and shove 'em up his ass." Fugly settles his bulk into a loose fighting stance, weaving the knife slowly back and forth, his face a mask of pure malice.
"Like fuck you will," Jessica snarls and launches a vicious snap kick. It connects with a bone jarring crunch, the knife arcs out of fugly's hand and skitters across the floor to be lost in the crowd.
"Fuck!"
Fugly grasps his wrist. Ain't broke but it's gotta hurt. Finding himself disarmed and in sudden pain, he backs off uncertainly, maybe figuring that three against two ain't such good odds as three against one. Jessica's fast, she's accurate and she don't take shit. Apparently shimmying like a sex goddess ain't the only moves this kid's got. I think I'm in love.
"Where d'ya learn that?" I ask out of the corner of my mouth.
"US Naval academy," she replies. Great. A jarhead and now a sailor? Looks like the assholes ain't the only convention in town.
"I've got your back," Hitch mutters into my right ear. What's this? Beer gratitude? Or is the asshole out to impress the company I'm keeping? He's on a loser with the aftershave.
"Watch yer own," I tell him.
"These twats threatened to do yer bird, did they?"
Speaking of assholes, this is Soho, leader of some of the local boys, all outlaws. He ain't local though, he's a Brit, taking his handle from the London borough he claims to have been born in. His yobbish accent is good but not good enough to hide the faint cadence of a cultured upbringing. One thing in his favour - he don't like motherfuckers who beat up on women.
"I am not anyone's damn bird!" Jessica insists, clearly troubled by the title. I can't help admire the fact she's more concerned about being called a bird than the prospect of getting her ass kicked by a bunch of lunatic gangbangers.
"Bolshie bint ain't she?" Soho observes wryly. "Sure she's worth the agony, mate?"
"She can take care of herself." I can smell Jessicalicious's approval. I just know those lips of hers are smiling.
"Yeah, a regular Karate Kate. Smooth moves, babe." Soho winks his approval at her.
Taking up a position to Jessica's left Soho folds his arms across his chest. He's small, stocky and well muscled, a compact powerhouse who packs a heavy punch. I know because I've seen him in action. His head is shaven, save for the scalp lock and his neatly trimmed goatee is glossy and brown. Each ear has a number of pierced gold hoops and he looks like he's escaped from some fucking Arabian Nights tale.
"Wanna acquaint me wiv' ya noo pals, Loge?"
Since he's obviously declared himself to fight for Jessica's honour I might as well. "The pansy on the floor nursing the boo-boo is Princess Jerry and these are his fugly sisters." As I speak the fuglies' number swells to fourteen. The space afforded us by the non-combatants is beginning to look crowded.
"Dese wankers frettened to gang bang the nice lady." Soho sounds like he's delivering pleasantries because his voice is deceptively mild. "What d'you fink boys? Do we kick their fuckin' 'eads in or wot?"
The groundswell of opinion from Soho's boys who have formed a loose skirmish line behind Jessica, Hitch, Soho and me, is a unilateral, "Fuck yeah."
The everything goes to hell as the fuglies seize the initiative and rush us. I catch a brief glimpse of Jerry scrambling to safety before he gets trampled by his own mob. With that busted hand of his he ain't gonna be picking his nose for a while let alone picking fights.
Panic sets in and I can hear members of the crowd gasping and screaming as they try to escape the vicinity of the battle. I can hear wood splintering as tables and chairs are upended and kicked or shoved aside. I can't help thinking that table legs make handy weapons. If some of the bystanders decide to join in things could get mighty interesting.
A big bruiser sweeps towards me with the momentum of a Mack truck. Doesn't Jerry have any normal sized bitch-kickers? I sidestep him, using his momentum to sink my left fist into his gut. After that it's a cinch to snap my knee in his face as he doubles over in agony. Cartilage and bone give way as my knee mashes his nose across his right cheek. Grabbing his hair I yank him backwards. Blood spurts glossing the lower half of his face with mucous and gore. Pulling my punch I tap him once on the side of the head. His eyes roll so far back I can see only whites as he goes down hard. And that's just where he'll stay for the duration of the fight.
"KI-AI!" The karate scream is Jessica's. Free of an opponent, I snatch a look in her direction and watch her lithe form engage the enemy with the grace and ferocity of a she leopard. Unable to use her feet in close quarters hand to hand combat she's defending herself with a series of blocks and punches. One fucker gets too close and she thrusts her knee into his groin with such force he lets out a scream as piercing as a steam whistle. He goes down puking and clutching his balls. I can't help feeling sorry for him.
Hitch ain't doing quite so well. Someone's landed a nasty punch that's split his bottom lip and blood is pouring from his mouth, his nostrils and a cut beneath his left eye. He's still on his feet though, still battling; his fists beating heavily on cocksucker flesh. Guy's a real scrapper.
Soho's fists are like jackhammers and he holds his own until dogpiled by three fuglies. A couple of his buddies wade in and pull two of 'em off leaving Soho to lay into the remaining one, a smile of glee on his now battered and bloody face.
Someone must've noticed I'm missing a dance partner 'coz two fuglies come at me at once. One of the bastards has a broken bottle whose jagged edges are encrusted with fresh blood. Looks like he's already given some poor fucker a bar room facelift. Well this is where his adventures in reverse plastic surgery end. Having adamantium laced bones gives me an unseen advantage. When I hit something it has a tendency to stay hit. Chopping my hand down on bottle-guy's wrist is akin to being hit with a steel girder. Something's gotta give and I hear the satisfying crunch of bone and tendons snapping. Face livid with agony he screams loudly but not with the same intensity of Jessica's nutcracker victim. The bottle falls out of his now nerveless hand and smashes on the floor and he staggers away, definitely hors de combat. I let him go. Maybe he and Jerry can form a victim support group and pick each other's noses.
Dispatching the first half of the tag team takes seconds. Swivelling on the ball of my left foot I smash my elbow into the gut of his friend. As he folds I take his head in an arm lock before tapping him on the back of the head with my fist, not hard but enough to render the shitbag unconscious. That's when one of his opportunistic buddies blindsides me.
It's the fuckwit Jessica disarmed. Problem is, he's found his nasty pig sticker and now it's buried to the hilt in my side. Shock costs me dear as he twists the blade like he's winding a fucking clock, shredding my liver with intent to finish me off. My gut explodes into white hot agony that sears along my nerves and into my brain. To say that it hurts is a fucking understatement. While I've gone out of my way not to kill anyone this murdering fuckhole has no such compunction. The wound is a killer. Fortunately, I'm not that easy to kill.
Feral rage and pain floods my arteries with adrenalin. No matter how much I want to I know I can't kill the bastard so I focus on damaging him instead. Ignoring the pain that's burning through my gut like a furnace I launch a roundhouse kick that connects heavily with the fucker's jaw. His head snaps backward and he falls away, my flesh and viscera tearing as he keeps a strong grip on the knife. No longer impaled I seize the knife wielding hand and twist remorselessly, mangling the wrist bones and crushing fingers in my brutal and relentless grip. Something or someone slams into my back and it's my turn to stagger, I manage to grab the knife but have to let go of my opponent in order to keep my balance. Reflexively I clutch at my wound, nostrils flaring with the cloying metallic scent of my own blood, feeling its slick warmth trickling down my belly, soaking through my shirt and spilling across my hand. Damn!
"You're dead fucking meat you fucking asshole," Fugly says panting hard, his voice guttural with exertion and pain. He's too fucking stupid and ornery to be afraid. It's gonna cost him a whole world of hurt.
Much as I want to kill this shit sucking buttwad I know I'll have difficulty explaining it to Xavier or the cops. I flick the knife upwards hard enough for it to lodge in the high ceiling, well out of reach of doing any more harm. I don't need any blade to take this douchebag down; I certainly don't need my claws. He presses what he thinks is an advantage, grabbing me in a bear hug despite his mangled hand and sinking a thumb into my wound. Hurts like fuck, I can't deny it, but it's already healing. With my arms pinned to my sides I smack him in the face with the back of my head, delivering the blow with as much strength as I can muster. It sends him reeling away, clutching his face.
Fugly is gonna pay for carving me up and ruining my shirt. Grabbing his right arm I wrench it sadistically, dislocating his shoulder. Using gravity and the bastard's weight against him, he drops to the floor. Keeping a firm grip I bring my boot down viciously once, twice, three times on his upper arm. I hear three satisfying crunches as bone shatters and with each impact white jagged pieces of humerus erupt through his skin in a welter of blood and raw tissue. Fugly's scream rings out, miraculously drowning out the band which is still playing despite the riot. I let go of the arm and Fugly curls up in a foetal ball around his agony. I look at him squirming around on the floor like a worm exposed and helpless in the noonday sun. The multiple compound fracture of his knife wielding arm is gonna be a real bitch to mend. If it ever does mend.
I look around for the next opponent but the fight's over save for a scuffle or two. There're casualties on both sides but victory belongs to the home team. Soho saunters over, his left eye rapidly swelling shut and blood seeping from a whole bunch of minor abrasions. He peers down at the fugly with the busted arm and shakes his head in wonder.
"A full monty fuck-over. Dat's got to hurt."
"Like I give a shit," I grunt and head for Jessica who's tending a bloody but otherwise upright Hitch. I don't want any sympathy she feels for him to dim the spark that's been struck between us. I take stock of her condition. There are a number of bruises on her arms but nothing like the one forming on her left cheek and temple that is rapidly turning a livid shade of purple.
Gently, I take her chin in my hand, the one that isn't covered in my blood, and examine the damage. "Which one of the fuckers did that?" I demand, with the full intention of ripping the bastard's balls off.
"Back off, tiger, this one's down to friendly fire. I got thrown between two guys duking it out. Soho's guy tried to pull his punch but I was flying through the air so fast I caught the full force of his haymaker upside the head. Knocked me silly for a few moments but Hitch came to my rescue."
Alarmed I ask, "You okay? You feeling dizzy or sick? Maybe I should run you over to the ER and get you checked for fractures or a concussion."
"I'm fine. My ears are still ringing but I don't think any permanent damage has been done." Her breath catches in her throat. "Logan, you're covered in blood. Are you alright?"
"It's someone else's," I lie glibly. "I'm okay. Shirt's ruined though." I manage to chuckle to prove my case but it hurts like fuck. Healing factor's working hard to fix the internal injuries but it ain't quite there yet.
Sal's rotund form bustles across the bar, he's red faced and practically foaming at the mouth after having finally instructed the band to quit playing.
"What the fuck is wrong with you people? Jessie, what the hell you doin' starting a fight when ya should be tendin' bar? Your skanky ass is fired already!"
Before I can lace into the slob Soho intervenes. "Hey, hold yer horses, Sal. Der kid didn't start this, dese fucks did." He gestures to the groaning bodies littering the floor.
"She threw the first punch, I saw her," Sal accuses, his jowly face growing more florid with anger.
"Only after this bastard with the busted arm pulled a knife," I added, furious that Sal is trying to lay the blame on what he considers to be a soft target.
"Ballpeen, Gentry," Soho snaps out. "Go through these suckers wallets. They started this ruckus they can pay for it."
The few fuglies that are able try to resist parting with their cash but they are swiftly and painfully discouraged.
"How much you reckon da damage is, Sal?"
Sal reaches up and scratches the back of his thick, flab wrinkled neck. His hooded eyes flicker about the room, assessing the damage and maybe adding a little extra for interest and inconvenience besides. "How much they got?
The biker called Ballpeen counts the wad of bills in his hands. "Maybe eight fifty, eight seventy five tops between 'em."
"That's how much it'll cost for repairs," Sal says quickly, the light of greed burning brightly in his pale eyes. The truth is, apart from the blood and puke, maybe a dozen broken glasses and a couple of broken chairs, not much damage has been done unless ya count injuries.
"Give der man der money, Ball. Leave der wankers enough gas money to get deir stinkin' arses back to Atlantic City."
Ballpeen peels a number of bills from the wad and throws them contemptuously into face of a fugly sitting up and spitting blood and broken teeth.
Sirens sound in the distance. They're drawing closer. Someone must've called nine one one.
"Get der fuckers out of here, Ball," Soho orders. "No point annoyin' Salem Centre's finest wiv' a pissant misdemeanour like this. Coppers can get real fuckin' antsy havin' to file all dat paperwork and dey might not be particular whose sorry arse dey arrest." Ballpeen and a few of his buddies comply, nudging some of the fuglies back to consciousness with booted feet and throwing abandoned beer in the faces of the ones not so easily rousable. The members of Soho's gang that are still out for the count are treated with slightly more sympathy, pulled to their feet and carried off into the night.
Hitch is dabbing his face with a bar towel. "Fuck! I'm going to have to get my nose reset."
What a shame. Really feel for the guy. Just not very much.
Seems Soho ain't through giving orders. "Girl's shook up, Sal. Maybe you should give her the rest of der night off."
Shoving the bills into a pocket Sal looks at Jessica and then looks at Soho. For a second I think he's gonna protest and good beer, or no good beer, I'm in the mood to rattle his fucking eyeballs loose.
Must've seen the murderous expression of my face when he catches my eye. He shrugs. "Sure. Why not. Just make certain ya report for work six pee em sharp tomorrow Jessie."
"Thanks, Sal," Jessica replies. She looks relieved but don't smell it.
"Maybe you'd better scarper too, Loge," Soho suggests. "I saw you take a hard hit from dat fucker wiv' der blade."
"I knew it," Jessica says worriedly. "You've been cut." She reaches for my sodden shirt and lifts it up. There's no wound for her to see. Her sigh of relief is gratifying and genuine. She don't know me but she cares enough to be concerned.
Soho's hard grey eyes are narrowed. His expression might be unreadable but his body language ain't. He saw. He knows.
"No. I'm fine," I assure her.
What'cha gonna do about it ya cocky little runt? My own stare is a challenge. He grins and says, almost as an aside, "Well some of us are a bit more resilient than others, ain't we, cocker"
He's a mutant? How come I can't smell it on him? Is part of his mutation being able to hide what he is so completely not even I can detect it? I leave it for another time because the sirens are only a couple of blocks away now.
Jessica takes my arm and once more I'm picking up some very stimulating chemical signals wafting from her. "You promised me something to eat," she reminds me. "There's a great pizza place between here and my apartment."
I don't need asking twice. Hope she like's her pizza cold.
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