Chapter 3

1:04 PM. Captain Jim's was a filthy rathole bar in the middle of a rundown part of town. Classic rock music from the 80's sounded in the atmosphere as a painful reminder of why a good portion of music from that era was called "bad 80's." The walls were cracked and ripe with mildew, and the cigarette smoke was so thick that you didn't even need to bum one to get your nicotine fix, just breathe. Not that you'd want to ask anything of the patrons anyway. Most of them in their 40's. Fat, balding, and either high or drunk on anything ranging from cocaine, to beer, to draino... Or all 3. The women weren't any exception either. They ranged from their 20's to 60's. Alot of them hookers, others, waitresses, the rest, a waste of air.

There was a trio of well used pool tables in the center. 2 of them having books underneath a leg or two keeping them up, not that they help much considering the makeshift paper signs hanging from the undersides stating, "Don't lean on the fucking table!" The area was dimly lite by a few green lights hanging above the tables and bar. Some of the drunken lowlives will say it's for a romantic setting. The truth is, it's because the staff is too lazy to reach 3 extra feet to change all of the other bulbs.

But this type of place was perfect for Barry to maintain a low profile for now. He sat back comfortably in his private boothe, sipping a glass of rum and coke, feeling right at home. Except for the slight annoyance of the putrid smell comming from an unwashed middle aged man, with greased back hair in the boothe next to his, feeling up a 40ish year old obese woman with an eye patch. His mind in an exhaustive state of overdrive, prying through the numerous memory blocks in a futile attempt to remember any phone numbers that may prove useful.

Jill Valentine and Barry havn't spoken in 3 1/2 years, Since their brief affair which soon resulted in divource from his wife. Whatever drove him to forsake his family in pursuit of a friend nearly half his age is a mystery, but what happened could not be undone. Out of grief and regret he deliberately made sure not to know where Jill went, or even how he could reach her. Chris Redfield on the other hand... He kept in touch with over the years. Even doing his part in the crumble of Umbrella by providing evidence linking the company to the development and manufacture of the T-virus that Albert Wesker ordered him to destroy back at the mansion. He originally kept the documents as insurance for his families' safety.

Barry had tried Chris' home phone several times in the past couple of hours with no luck. He didn't even own an answering machine in response to his home being searched by Umbrella agents on numerous occasions when he wasn't around. He clamped his phone shut yet again and set it down on the amply scratched wooden table, just in time to see three men prance through the entrance like they owned the place.

The tallest of the men, looked about 30 and was about 6"6, with long wavy black hair down to his shoulders, a brown peircing eyes that complimented a seemingly permenent sneer on his rough face. He seemed to be North American. He wore a black muscle shirt, black shorts, and brown work boots that looked like steel toe. The shortest of the trio, was about 5"8, and of Asian descent. He was very lanky, and the best dressed out of them. He wore a silk, velvet, dress shirt with a gold chain hung about his neck. Acompanied by tight, black pants and black, polished dress shoes. He quickly mingled with the crowd and disappeard. The last of the posse seemed to be the leader, by the display of confidense and respect/fear that surrounded his prescence. He was about 6"2, and North American like his pal. His head was shaved and adorned by a blue bandana. He looked kinda like that action star Vin Deisel, from his face to his fairly impressive build. He was dressed in simply a brown vest, blue baggy jeans, and black sneakers. His left arm was covered in black tribal tatoos that extended from the wrist to his shoulder.

He simply walked over to the immeadiatly vacant bar. A complimentary beer was and newspaper was waiting for him at his selected seat. The crowd and staff feared these men, because they did not have a choice. From what Barry could decipher from the whispers, they were enforcers for a local street gang. Everyone simply kept their mouths shut, and their eyes down towards the drinks in front of them. However, Barry was not intimidated in the least, and had no problem locking gazes with the largest of the 3.

"Got a problem dipshit?" Growled the man, with a voice that sounded like he ate gravel for lunch and washed it down with a refreshing box of thumb tacs. "Yeah... Your standing in front of the T.V." Retorted Barry sarcasticly. Time seemed to stand still, as everyone heard a remark not even a fully armed marine would dare make in that man's prescence. "Why don't you come here and say that to my face hillbilly?" Replied the man in serious need of anger management and a tutor. Everyone around him cleared away, pushing tables and chairs to the corners of the room. A fight was brewing, and everyone started placing their bets among their friends, and they were large sums of cash against the older man. Barry stood up from his seat, brushing off his jeans and white, t-shirt, as if he got dirty just from the ogre talking at him. He took a few slow steps towards him, his boots clopping on the dirty hard wood floor, his gaze not leaving the aggressor's even once. He stopped about 4 feet away.

"I said... I wanna watch the television set, and your ugly ass is in my way." Repeated Barry in a "what are you gonna do about it?" tone of voice. Many gasped like a trumpet calling forth the calvary in response to his brave statement, or last words. The behemoth clenched his fist and gritted his teeth in rage, before taking a full forced right hook towards Barry's jaw that would surely knock it off of his skull. But unknown to most... Barry was an adept in Jiu-Jitsu, and much quicker on his feet despite what his large, muscular appearance might let on. In the blink of an eye before the fist in the incarnate of a compact "weapon of mass destruction" could make contact, he simply side stepped the muscular extremity, grabbing his wrist with his left hand and spinning on his heel in a clockwise 180 degree turn. He reached up and grabbed the man's throat with his right hand, clutching the giant's wind pipe, and stomping down on his right kneecap, effectively snapping it. The man dropped to his left knee, and howled as the fiery pain shot up his leg, and even reached into his groin. Barry twisted his hips and tensed his right arm muscles into a push, forcing the man down to the pavement, with a loud "crack" as the back of his head hit first, knocking him unconcious.

Everything stopped, and not a breath was heard. Most of the patrons just watched in awe and disappointment as they allowed their rent money and gambling debts to slip through their fingers and fall to the floor. The crowd however refused to part for Barry to reach his preciouse T.V. He leered down at two patrons barring his way and finally pulled them aside from one another. When suddenly, Barry went flying backwards a good 5 or 6 feet as his chest seered in pain and the wind was knocked out of him. He spent a few seconds to quickly force the air back into his freshly starved lungs, before pulling his lower body back, planting his palms firmly on the floor, and lunging his feet forward effectively whipping his form back to his upright stance. He then saw that the foot was dressed in fresh polished shoes. Shoes that belonged to the shorter Asian that disappeared into the crowd before. The Asian man took a step forward, a grin plastered across his face. He leapt into the air throwing both of his legs straight out to his left and right, as he placed his hands below his body to absorb the shock of landing in the splits. The crowd immeadiatly began doubling up their bets, and a few more people actually starting putting their money on the older man.

Barry stood with one leg in front of the other for good balance, and his left arm pulled back in front of his face open handed, with his right arm outstretched in front also open handed, looking his opponent directly in the eye. The Asian appeared to be a very adept Jeet Kune Do artist, as Barry could tell by his stance. The man wandered around the fighting ring in almost a jog, except he kept switching his feet back and forth while trying to get a good vantage point to attack from. His hands also constantly moving about in circular motions open handed, Both hands encircling in front of his torsoe, one rotated clockwise and the other counter clockwise, to throw off any opponents trying to read his next attack.

Barry, knew not to underestimate his opponent because he was small, especially because he was extremely fast, and forced him to be on his best guard at all times. The Asian stepped forward and quickly threw a front flatfooted kick towards Barry's face, but it was quickly deflected by the former S.T.A.R.S. members' right forearm, that caught under the mans' heel and lifted his leg, forcing the Asian off balance, as the foot passed harmlessly over Barry's head. The older man then counter attacked with a swift left straight shot aimed at the soft spot behind his knee, but the Asian quickly tensed the muscles of his other leg and sprung into the air. Twisting his upper body in midair, effectively swinging his entrapped leg out of danger, while whipping around his other foot into a backside round house, pressing for the right side of Barry's head. However Barry was a more experienced fighter, and saw the twist of his opponents hips, immeadiatly ducking low enough to feel the the breeze trailing his enemy's foot as it swept over his short, brown hair. Just as the man was finishing his full rotation, he swung his original foot up for a final kick to Barry's chest before landing, The old timer bobbed left, and thrust his elbow up, making firm contact within the soft spot under the man's chin behind his protective jawline, sending the Asian spawling away from him, and landing on his back.

Barry was about to press his attack while is opponent was on the ground, but he immeadiatly stepped back, as the man cranked his legs out to either side, and whipped them around in a full circle, in hopes to sweep out the older mans legs. Feeling no contact after his full scan, the Asian rolled backwards and on to his feet once again. He smirked at The old timer and spit some sticky blood onto the already filthy floor, as a result of the blow causing him to bite the inside of his cheek. The man resumed his very fluid stance, seeming to have not lost any energy what so ever. His gaze burning intense enough to rip a gaping hole into your very being. Barry looked down at the man's feet briefly, The well polished shoes flailing wildly back and forth, faining attacks often. Returning his gaze to his opponents, he watched his opponent nudge his head and shoulders forward every few seconds, as if to attack, except they just happened to be more psyche outs.

The leader of the gang, still sitting at the bar, never once even so much as looked in the direction of the fight, seeming completely disinterested in the event, and more intrigued by his news paper and half finished beer in front of him. Barry, now getting tired of this "all for show loser" threw a quick one-two jab at his face with his left and right fists. However, the Asian was still quite quick and attentive, and he weaved his head right and then left in response to the attack. Barry then pressed forward, and threw another 5 jabs starting with his right hand this time. The man began backing away bobbing his head left and right, successfully avoiding any blows that came his way. The crowd immeadiatly parted behind the Asian, as they were now reaching the border of the fight pit. Barry's carefully laid trap was finally sprung, when his enemy retaliated with a swift right hook kick towards his face.

But the older man knew what was comming and reached up with his left hand, blocking the incomming foot, and intwining the Asian's leg under his left arm pit in an effective lock. Barry then spun with all his strength, forcing the man to completely lose his balance. He swung the tiny Asian like a ragdoll in a full circle, before the asian abrubtely stopped his flight, by catching a solid oak pillar with his face. The puney man crashed to the floor, and a red mess erupted from his mouth, shattered nose, and a multitude of other cuts and splinters about his facial structure. Barry released his foot and took in a deep breath, The Asian laid there on his stomache, trying to find the strength to pick himself up for another go. After spitting out a few teeth and more blood, he realized he wasn't feeling too well and just laid down.

The man at the bar, still not having looked at the display, simply guzzled the last few bitter ounces of his beer and slammed his folded paper down on the counter. The bar erupted into fits of rage and damn near violence, as most of the patrons now owed more than they could afford to the lucky few who bet against the mobsters. Barry exhaled a final sigh, and began walking towards the T.V. yet again, in hopes to find a good news channel. When suddenly two of the gamblers were pushed aside, scattering their cash everywhere. In any other situation, those grease balls would be diving left right and center for the money, except, nobody even wanted to blink near the final monstrousity. The leader of the gang stepped out into the circle. "Oh my God, Grinder is gonna fight now." Whispered the dirtbag who was hitting on the one eyed chick. The man simply looked at Barry and grinned, Nodding his head and offering his right hand for a friendly powergrip.

Barry was plain and simply too exhausted to fight anymore, so he took the mans' hand and accepted his apology. Many people around the room, immeadiatly began motioning with their hands the catholic insignia of the crucifix. Grinder's proposal, however,was not one of respect, but of misdirection. He quickly yanked Barry close, planting his kneecap powerfully into his stomache. Barry, doubled over and coughed, but his instincts told him to get out of his grasp, by swinging a firm boot to the man's groin. The nazi wannabe'shold loosened, and Barry quickly pulled his hand away, stepping back a few feet, while weezing for much neededoxygen. While Grinder seemed otherwise completely unphased, as he charged forward, thrusting out his muscular shoulder, his sneakers gripping quite well to the wooden earth, only adding to his momentum. The dirty fighter collided with Barry cleanly, sending the old timer sailing back across the room, before shaking hands with the ground as gravity insisted. Barry knew he had to get up, though his aching muscles said otherwise.

After his brief mental battle with himself that felt like hours, he climbed to his feet and looked up, only to see two things moving quickly towards him. The newer pool table, and Grinder behind it. Not given enough time to react, and his nervous system hurting him for trying, The wood and felt table crashed into the older man, dragging/pushing him past the rest of the tables and chairs, and towards the approaching wall. As if pure instinct itself, or a moment of clarity kicked in. He hastily reached into the corner pocket, feeling through the leather netting he grasped the 8 ball. Pulling his hand out of the seemingly infinite hole, and yanking his arm back.Whipping the ball forward with every ouce of strength he had left. The glassy substance smashed against the top of Grinder's nose, and scattered shards of bone and cartilage throughout his face, some even shooting out of his cheeks in a bloody protest. But the ones that counted, were the shards that traveled up his nasal cavity, and embedded themselves comfortably into his brain.

Barry, completely out of breath, allowed his legs to give out as he slumped against the moldy, nicotine stained walls. He reached into his pocket, pulling out his tattered pack of cigarettes. Placing one bent in 6 or 7 places between his lips, he sat there just sucking on the filter for a moment before realizing it wasn't lit. Gazing at the corpse of his hopefully last enemy this shithole had to offer, he reached into the same pocket for his brass lighter. Gratefully taking hold of the metallic miracle worker, he flipped the top and slide back the crank... Nothing happened. He turned the crank again, plenty of sparks, but no fire. Everyone stared at him in silence, wondering what terrible doom awaited them, if he didn't get his fix. The patrons were too terrified to move to toss him a lighter, so Barry calmly pulled the chamber out of it's case. Lifting the cotton fiber lacing the underside he blew into it, allowing a few vapours to soak into the mechanism.

He turned the crank without even placing the cylinder back in it's case. Loe and behold, he created fire tousher inhis relief. He took a long drag of his smoke, and allowed the chemicals to seep into his lungs for a long moment before exhaling. "Heh... works every time on these." Barry said to himself matter of factly. "Strange though... I havn't had to refill this even once in all the time Iv'e had this. I would love to know what type of oil Chris used." Barry then lifted the case, and was about to slide the chamber back inside, when something caught his eye. "If ever your in serious trouble, you can reach me at this number (1-226-754-3498)" Was engraved on the side of the chamber. The very lighter that Chris Redfield gave him, had an emergency contact number on it.

DISCLAIMER...I do not own or claim to own any of the characters, events, or placesaffilliated with the Resident evil franchise. They are ownedsolely by Capcom.I also do not own or claim to own the 3 fighters depicted in this chapter... I simply used them because I saw them in some movie, and I figured they'd be cool to put in a bar fight scene. I do however claim to rightfully own any of the characters that are not depicted anywhere else but this fic, and I ask that if anyone would like to use these characters they ask for my permission first thankyou.