Part 2: This is Not a Row

If anyone asked, Woody was going to blame Lester for the fact that every time Stephanie Plum, renowned Bombshell Bounty Hunter, threw their lives into chaos, he had a craving for deep-fried food that could only be satisfied by the questionable establishment with the massive figure of a chicken lounging in a bucket rotating on its roof. He'd tried, last time the need had hit, to appease the craving monster with a healthy version of the southern fried wings his Mama had taught him to cook before he'd enlisted in the army, but it had left him without that tell-tale coating of grease in his mouth and wholly dissatisfied with the experience.

So, when Hal had mentioned that it was time to pause their patrol shift for lunch, Woody hadn't spared a thought to ask his partner what he felt like eating, instead driving fifteen minutes across town to Cluck-in-a-Bucket. To his credit, Hal hadn't questioned their destination, but that could have been because the last time he'd questioned a decision Woody had made in the heat of the moment, he'd ended up with a lump the size of a golf ball on the side of his head where their target FTA had hit him with a pipe. These days, when Hal was told to jump, he no longer asked how high; he just jumped. He'd figure the rest out in the air.

Inside, at the back of the inevitable lunch rush queue, the men were debating the merits of mashed potato versus the biscuits, as they did every time they ordered from the restaurant, when their awareness was caught by a pair of guys in navy cargos and matching, workwear button-down short sleeved shirts. They were staring at a panel beside the door that hung agape for their viewing, muttering to each other, and pointing to various parts.

"Need a hand, boys?" Woody called in the same manner school bullies used to taunt their victims without teachers catching on.

"We're fi-"

The tension in the restaurant increased from that of a wet noodle lying on a plate, to the elastic band of a sling shot, pulled back in preparation of launch as the guys at the panel turned to address the good Samaritans offering them assistance only to find themselves face to face with the enemy. Like cheerleading teams in a typical teen movie, the rivalry between Rangeman LLC, the premier security company in Trenton, and newcomers Flinders Keep Safe was not only intense, but catty and a little petty. Unlike the perky teens in the movies, though, the employees of Rangeman and Flinders seemed to turn a blind eye to the idea that there could be a common cause for them to fight against together.

"You," the first Flinders guy seethed. He was a weeny fellow who only came up to Hal's shoulder and sported a full face of acne, giving the impression that he was actually the work-experience kid taken on an outing.

"Us," Woody and Hal replied in unrehearsed unison, mentally high-fiving at their ability to be perfectly in sync. As the aforementioned lump on the head scenario proves, the pair were not always known for being on the same page, but on the topic of Flinders Keep Safe and it's employees, they were in agreeance: they needed to assert their dominance and drive them out of town. Rangeman had spent a lot of years building a reputation in Trenton, and just as they were beginning to win the acceptance of the town's most resistant residents – Steph's old neighbourhood – a new company popped up, stealing several clients from right under their noses.

Cluck-in-a-Bucket being the first.

As one of the establishments Steph frequented, and a location that had provided numerous catastrophes, scuffles, and explosions, Rangeman felt it pertinent to keep the surveillance and security of the restaurant tucked neatly under their wing. But Flinders had swooped in with their flashy sales pitch and low-low prices, gobbling up the account with no remorse.

Clearly, their low-low prices were for a reason if their systems were in such a state that they needed maintenance in the middle of the lunch rush, and now, instead of being in line for a quick indulgence of fat and carbs, Wood and Hal found themselves locked in the latest battle of an ongoing turf war between the two companies.

"What the hell are you doing here?" said the second Flinders guy, a man with skin the colour of almond meal and a constitution to match.

"Ordering lunch from one of the worst secured places in Trenton," Hal responded, crossing his sizable arms over his equally sizable chest. "But we can hold off if you need a hand figuring out how to make a security system work."

"We have it under control," Pimples said stiffly, crossing his own arms and puffing up his chest like it made a difference in the amount of intimidation he was able to throw off.

Woody stepped forward and took a brief glance at the internal wiring of the security panel the Flinders guys had been examining and let out a low whistle. "You should be thankful you only work for Flinders," he said, shaking his head. "If you were in the big leagues with us, you'd get a beating for an installation like that."

"How 'bout I give you a beating?" Almond Meal retorted, closing the distance between himself and Woody so that they stood toe to toe, chest to chest, nose to… well, let's just say that Woody could have easily bitten the tip of Almond Meal's nose if he'd been so inclined.

Never one to back down from a fight, Woody lifted an eyebrow at the shorter man and challenged, "I'd like to see you try."

Pimples must not have been as keen for a throwdown, however, because he tried to drag his colleague back away from the men he was facing off against. Unfortunately, it appeared that Pimples had won the coin toss to take possession of the one brain cell allotted to the pair, though, because Almond Meal resisted. Instead of backing down, he opened his mouth and jeered, "I bet these lug heads couldn't take down their own grandmas."

As a well raised Southern gentleman, Woody couldn't let such comments about his dear old grandmother, a woman who had shown great determination to ensure the future of her family, go unacknowledged. And as a well-trained military man, he knew that sometimes the only way to acknowledge a threat was with his fist.

And that is how it came to be that four grown, male adults that really should have known better, ended up in an all-out brawl on the grimy linoleum floor of the Cluck-in-a-Bucket in the middle of the day. The patrons of the restaurant, oblivious as they had been to the altercation occurring at the back of the line until the first punch was thrown, reacted in the typical way modern busy bodies did: they pulled out their cell phones and began filming as they backed away to a safe distance.

Someone must have had the sense to call the cops, though, because several minutes later they appeared, yelling at the group to stand down, back away, drop to the floor with their hands behind their heads. Pimples had been the first to comply, dropping the tray he'd been wielding as a weapon and wincing at the pain in his side as he dropped to the ground. Hal was next, releasing the headlock he'd had on Almond Meal who followed suit in quick succession. That left only Woody, huffing out great, angered breaths of a raging bull as he slowly lowered to his knees and then all the way down, placing his hands on the back of his head as he continued to glare at the Flinders Keep Safe employees.

The cops made quick work of slapping handcuffs on the quartet of masculine stupidity and started hauling them to their feet to get them back out to the squad cars they'd abandoned at the front of the restaurant. They weren't inclined to give Rangeman employees the benefit of the doubt, their hive mind having been poisoned by the opinions of one Joseph Morelli in the wake of the one-hundred-and-sixty-seventh and final break up between himself and Steph when she decided that she wasn't going to take his shit anymore.

Woody and Hal made no move to resist as they were shoved into the back seat and the doors closed them in. They knew that creating a fuss would only bring the book down harder on their heads. Tank and Ranger were already going to have the duo's balls in a vice for their rash actions, there was no use adding resisting arrest to the equation.

As the cops stepped away, a blur of movement caught Hal's eye and he turned to take in one of the last things he wanted to see right at that moment: Lester Santos running toward them with a shit-eating grin, and his phone poised for photos.

"Fuck," Hal groaned, knowing that with Lester on the scene it would only be a matter of moments before the whole company was aware of their humiliating predicament.

Woody leaned around his partner to see what could have made the already terrible situation worse and had to agree with the sentiments he'd uttered when he saw the boss's cousin.

"Smile!" Lester instructed, grin growing wider as he was met with the exact opposite of what he'd asked for.

The cops slid into the front seats then, glancing over the shoulders to the men in the backseat and then to the manic puppy on the asphalt outside. "Friend of yours?" the driver asked.

Neither of the men dignified that with a response as the engine was turned over and the car they were in followed the other two out of the lot and back to the station.

Two hours later, all four men had been questioned and while Pimples and Almond Meal had been allowed to leave, Woody and Hal were still sitting in a holding cell, waiting. For what, they weren't sure, because they'd already received confirmation that they weren't going to be charged with anything at this point. Miraculously, the cops had reasoned that letting them all off with a warning would suffice.

Hal had just opened his mouth to ask what was taking so long when the air pressure in the room shifted, alerting them to the fact that their boss had just arrived. And he wasn't happy. Using context clues, Hal deduced that the cause for Ranger's displeasure wasn't just that he and Woody had been caught up in a public brawl and hauled off to the police station, but because their actions had necessitated an interruption to the time he'd been spending with the woman with her hand tucked into his.

If looks could kill, Woody and Hal wouldn't have lived past the first thirty seconds after Ranger's arrival, but lucky for them, Steph saw fit to break the tension that had sprung up by uttering a riddle of a statement. "I really thought that with their military training, your ducks would be a little better at lining up in a row," she said, turning her soft gaze from the men in the cell to the one by her side. "Turns out they're just as bad as mine."

"Babe," Ranger intoned, allowing his own gaze to drift to hers for a brief moment before it flashed back to his employees. "They're so much worse."

End