Staring at my now wet hand and almost empty glass, I switch it to my dry hand, shoot it down and set it on the bar. ZZ Sailor has disappeared, guess you can’t get that old in a place like this without knowing when something is going to go down. I stand up and grab Mullet by the back of his jacket, spinning him around and slamming him against the bar, dropping his bottles in the process, shooting Bud foam across the floor.
“The fuck?” Mullet asks, a little dazed.
I give a low chuckle and take a step to the side, blocking him in. “Thank you for that.”
“For what?”
“The excuse,” I grin. His head snaps back from the sudden impact with my fist. Grabbing his stained white shirt, I pop him in the nose like a speed bag a few times, feeling that satisfying crunch of breaking cartilage on the third hit. He comes to his senses with that sharp pain and throws a haymaker at my head which I easily sidestep. I stumble, shit, maybe that shit booze can get the job done. His fist connects with my gut and a sharp breath is knocked out of me.
Adrenaline surges, my vision clears, I can feel the heat of anger replacing the fuzziness of booze. My vision tunnels, red tinting the edges, the limp body blows he’s hitting me with seem nothing worse than a toddler’s attention. I step aside and throw a right into his gut, lifting him off the floor. As he doubles over, I slam my knee into his forehead, snapping him back upright for the left cross to the face, blood spatters my fist from his now demolished nose. I continue to press my advantage, body, face, body, body, face; each hit a little slower but more powerful.
He’s faltering now, throwing a weak punch which I easily cast aside, landing a kidney shot as he turns. Wait, why the fuck does Mullet have a camo shirt now? Huh, that’s not Mullet, it’s one of his low-rent buddies. Douche Number Two has a camo hoodie and a bright orange trucker hat. He spins, leaning into his wounded side but throws a few at my face as I retreat to figure out what the fuck is happening. Where the hell did he come from?
Fuck yes, more meat for the grinder.
I let go. Fists, knees, elbows, throws, anything and everything flows out of my desire to inflict pain to the level that is still simmering inside myself. I’m not sure how long I beat on the white trash twins, but if there was something to hit, I fucking hit it. I can tell by the ache in my side, and the stinging in my jaw, the blood on my tongue, that they’ve landed a few hits, still hurts less than today does. I have Mullet in a headlock, railing away at his bloody face when a surprise kick from behind takes out my knee making me stumble and lose hold of the greasy asshole. I whip around and rise to see Redneck Number Three coming at me. He apparently retreated after his cheap back shot and is now rushing me like a fucking linebacker, helmet first.
Really, trying to tackle in a goddamn bar fight?
I sidestep him like a matador and grab him by the back of his jersey.
Fuckin’ Packers? Really? Explains a lot.
I can’t help but roll my eyes as I use his momentum to throw him headfirst into the side of the bar. He crumples like the sack of cheese curds he is. My distraction has let Mullet collect himself. He fucking spits at me with his bloody mouth and my last nerve breaks. I chase his pussy ass as he scampers around the bar and through the now vacated cluster of chairs and tables. Douche Number Two attempts to intercept this macabre game of tag, but I land an uppercut to his jaw, laying him out. How is this little shit still standing? I’m pretty sure I can see a tooth on the floor.
Mullet charges me with all the grace of a fucking goose; I lift my knee and kick the motherfucker in the chest. He flies back, crashing into a table that shatters under his flabby ass body. He rolls to the side and slumps, finally out of it. As I turn, Douche Number Two throws a jab which I knock aside.
Stepping away, Douche Number Two realizes he’s the only one still standing and throws up his hands, “Fuck him, he slept with my sister anyway,” stating as he turns and walks out of the bar.
I shove my hands through my hair, pulling the longer strands on top back away from my face before I turn back to the bar. I motion to ZZ Sailor for another drink, stepping over Packer’s unconscious body and righting my stool. I walk up and brace my hands on the bar top watching the slow drip of blood pooling between them from an apparent cut on my cheek.
“Where’s my fuckin’ drink?” I shout when I feel a hand clamp down on my shoulder. I growl, rolling my eyes as I turn to look see what dumb fuck has a death wish in this forgotten shit hole. The asshole whose hand is still on my shoulder is so stereotypically “shit kicker” I can’t help but let out a “HA” in the irony. The fucker is built like a linebacker complete with the shiny bald head, no neck, and a fake leather jacket stretched over the tree trunks he calls arms.
“Time to go,” No-neck says. He pulls me a step or two before I shrug out of his hold and toss a sucker punch to his jaw. Jesus, that’s like punching fuckin’ granite. I cock back for another swing, but a bear claw wraps around my bruised fist and squeezes. Joints groan as pain shoots up my wrist; I relax and let my arm go limp. As I turn to see who is behind me now, my eyes connect with Axel, the VP. He stares flatly at me, daring me to rev my engine in defiance. I glare back at him, knowing how I must look to him, bleeding face, bruised fists, ragged heaving breaths. I can feel the animal in me wanting to keep going, to stay in the fight ‘til oblivion comes. Part of me knows that I’m fighting ghosts, and you can’t kill those with fists.
Axel holds my gaze before he reaches forward and tags the back of my neck, pulling me to him as his other arm comes around my shoulders, pulling me toward him as I half-heartedly attempt to pull away.
“Hold son. Hold,” he murmurs over and over until I settle, resting my forehead against his shoulder, deep breaths heaving from my now adrenaline deprived body, the red leaking from my vision. “There ya go boy. The hurt’s a bitch; know you’re wishing it was you instead. This ain’t the way. Killing yourself, killing these fuckers ain’t the way. Take it, harness it, and channel it. Do the good that got wasted son, not the evil. We got you.”
He steers me away from the bar as he casually throws a roll of bills on the bar. “Sorry for the inconvenience.” is all he says to ZZ Sailor before he guides me out of the bar. As we get to the parking lot, I look toward my bike and see Axel’s truck parked next to it with a Prospect leaning against the side waiting for us.
“Don’t even think about getting on that bike Brother. Remy’ll take care of it,” Axel says as he drops his arm from my shoulders. I fish my keys from my pocket and toss them to Remy, dropping my eyes. I can’t face the judgment I know I’ll find in his gaze. I make my way to the passenger side of the truck and climb in, just soaking it all in.
“I’ll pay ya back,” I acknowledge as I settle myself in the seat and take stock. My ribs hurt like a bitch, I’ve got a split lip, and a gash in my right cheek. Axel grunts his acknowledgement but leaves it at that, this man knows when to throw fists, when to throw words, and when to bless the silence. He knows any lecture he’d throw my way wouldn’t help; I’m already taking myself to task for losing control and causing a headache for the only people who accept me.
Settling back in the seat, I look out the window. All the pain and anger fall away, draining me, and all I’m left with is the hollow ache in my chest and the pain in my side. I lift my fist and rub over my breastbone, anything to ease the heartache that has nothing to do with the fight. Touching the bumblebee tattoo over my heart. Two years. I’m so sorry.