I wrote this one as if it were a contemporary Western, and what does anyone expect in a Western but a bar room brawl? Well, given the heroes and their abilities, the didn't actually have to fight in the bar room and wreck the place:
Chapter Thirty-seven
Several of the patrons rush to the windows, holding curtains aside, intensely curious as to what will happen next. None is willing, however, to become directly involved, especially not with stopping an impending fight. The waitress stands at the front door, hands on her hips, looking out at the parking lot and shaking her head at the stupidity of all men.
"Paul," Greg advises his lover outside, "you stay out of this. I'll handle the three of them myself."
"Whatever you say, Greg," Paul grins, stepping back, knowing that Greg might have been a bit over matched if there were six of them. Three, he knows, should be a breeze.
"Oh, aren't you the tough one?" the first man ridicules, wondering why these two faggots act so confident since he and his buddies never fight fair. "We'll take you on one at a time, then."
"That's acceptable to me," Greg smiles, pretending not to notice that one of the guys has slipped up behind him, intending to pin his arms while the other two take their best shots.
"Gotcha," the one breathes heavily on Greg's neck, smelling strongly of garlic.
"This is gonna be easier than I thought," the first one says, telegraphing his punch by a mile.
Greg tilts his head and the meaty fist sails past his ear, smashing hard against the nose of the guy behind Greg, making a loud, cracking noise.
"Damn it, Bobby," the guy behind Greg yells, releasing his hold and grabbing his face, collapsing to the ground in a bloody heap. "You broke my goddamn nose, you idiot!"
"The bastard moved," Bobby shouts, angry with himself for missing and taking out his buddy.
The third guy, not wanting to waste a chance, swings at Greg's midsection; but Greg deftly moves, causing the guy to fall to the ground.
"Shit!" he shouts in a muffled voice, now face down in the gravel and dirt.
Bobby, the ringleader, is furious that his two partners have been so quickly neutralized. He comes at Greg and swings again. Greg ducks easily, then stabs an uppercut at the guy's jaw, breaking it and sending him flying backward, instantly groggy. Unlike fight scenes in the movies, however, Bobby's pain is excruciating. Flat on his back and holding his jaw, he does not get up, fortunate that he did not lose any teeth. Woozy, he still recognizes that it was a blow the like of which he has never taken before in any previous brawl.
The guy face down on the ground has quickly gotten up, however, and reaches into the open window of their pickup, grabbing an ax handle. Greg knows what the guy is up to but steps toward the truck anyway, keeping his back to the man and acting as if he has not noticed the other's obvious move for a weapon.
Looking through his attacker's eyes as the man swings, Greg ducks, and the ax handle smacks into the windshield of their truck, cracking the glass.
"Hold still, you asshole," the guy yells in frustration, losing all control, a serious blunder in a fight with a telepathic adversary.
He wildly swings the ax handle again, as Greg has slipped to the front of the truck. This time the blow misses wide and smashes a headlight. "Damn it!"
He continues to follow Greg, entirely enraged, raising the ax handle high and bringing it down, as Greg jukes away, crushing the side mirror instead. "Shit!"
As the guy angrily stares at the damage he has caused to their own truck, Greg calmly asks him, "Had enough?"
"No!" the man shouts, pissed and pointing the ax handle at the shattered side mirror. "Look what you made me do!"
"I did nothing," Greg announces, knowing that the guy won't take responsibility for his own stupidity and now tired of wasting time with him. Greg rears back and punches the guy in the left eye, knocking him backward into the side of the pickup.
The guy drops the ax handle and reaches for the side of his face, groaning and sinking to the running board, not knowing how lucky he was that Greg took something off the punch.
Standing over the one named Scotty and shaking his head, Greg then tells him, "I think you've had enough now, and that eye's probably going to swell shut real soon unless we get some ice on it."
He reaches down to help Scotty up, knowing that the fight has left all three of these would-be combatants. He also picks up the ax handle from the ground.
"Thanks," Scotty mumbles, staggering to his feet and finally accepting that he has been badly beaten.
"It isn't like in the movies, fella," Greg explains, as he helps the bruised man toward the restaurant, tossing the ax handle several yards away into the brush.
Paul has already taken the other two inside for some ice for their broken nose and broken jaw, respectively, assuring them that his lover packs quite a wallop, and rubbing it in just a little by adding, "I tried to warn you not to pick a fight with him."
Chapter Thirty-seven
Several of the patrons rush to the windows, holding curtains aside, intensely curious as to what will happen next. None is willing, however, to become directly involved, especially not with stopping an impending fight. The waitress stands at the front door, hands on her hips, looking out at the parking lot and shaking her head at the stupidity of all men.
"Paul," Greg advises his lover outside, "you stay out of this. I'll handle the three of them myself."
"Whatever you say, Greg," Paul grins, stepping back, knowing that Greg might have been a bit over matched if there were six of them. Three, he knows, should be a breeze.
"Oh, aren't you the tough one?" the first man ridicules, wondering why these two faggots act so confident since he and his buddies never fight fair. "We'll take you on one at a time, then."
"That's acceptable to me," Greg smiles, pretending not to notice that one of the guys has slipped up behind him, intending to pin his arms while the other two take their best shots.
"Gotcha," the one breathes heavily on Greg's neck, smelling strongly of garlic.
"This is gonna be easier than I thought," the first one says, telegraphing his punch by a mile.
Greg tilts his head and the meaty fist sails past his ear, smashing hard against the nose of the guy behind Greg, making a loud, cracking noise.
"Damn it, Bobby," the guy behind Greg yells, releasing his hold and grabbing his face, collapsing to the ground in a bloody heap. "You broke my goddamn nose, you idiot!"
"The bastard moved," Bobby shouts, angry with himself for missing and taking out his buddy.
The third guy, not wanting to waste a chance, swings at Greg's midsection; but Greg deftly moves, causing the guy to fall to the ground.
"Shit!" he shouts in a muffled voice, now face down in the gravel and dirt.
Bobby, the ringleader, is furious that his two partners have been so quickly neutralized. He comes at Greg and swings again. Greg ducks easily, then stabs an uppercut at the guy's jaw, breaking it and sending him flying backward, instantly groggy. Unlike fight scenes in the movies, however, Bobby's pain is excruciating. Flat on his back and holding his jaw, he does not get up, fortunate that he did not lose any teeth. Woozy, he still recognizes that it was a blow the like of which he has never taken before in any previous brawl.
The guy face down on the ground has quickly gotten up, however, and reaches into the open window of their pickup, grabbing an ax handle. Greg knows what the guy is up to but steps toward the truck anyway, keeping his back to the man and acting as if he has not noticed the other's obvious move for a weapon.
Looking through his attacker's eyes as the man swings, Greg ducks, and the ax handle smacks into the windshield of their truck, cracking the glass.
"Hold still, you asshole," the guy yells in frustration, losing all control, a serious blunder in a fight with a telepathic adversary.
He wildly swings the ax handle again, as Greg has slipped to the front of the truck. This time the blow misses wide and smashes a headlight. "Damn it!"
He continues to follow Greg, entirely enraged, raising the ax handle high and bringing it down, as Greg jukes away, crushing the side mirror instead. "Shit!"
As the guy angrily stares at the damage he has caused to their own truck, Greg calmly asks him, "Had enough?"
"No!" the man shouts, pissed and pointing the ax handle at the shattered side mirror. "Look what you made me do!"
"I did nothing," Greg announces, knowing that the guy won't take responsibility for his own stupidity and now tired of wasting time with him. Greg rears back and punches the guy in the left eye, knocking him backward into the side of the pickup.
The guy drops the ax handle and reaches for the side of his face, groaning and sinking to the running board, not knowing how lucky he was that Greg took something off the punch.
Standing over the one named Scotty and shaking his head, Greg then tells him, "I think you've had enough now, and that eye's probably going to swell shut real soon unless we get some ice on it."
He reaches down to help Scotty up, knowing that the fight has left all three of these would-be combatants. He also picks up the ax handle from the ground.
"Thanks," Scotty mumbles, staggering to his feet and finally accepting that he has been badly beaten.
"It isn't like in the movies, fella," Greg explains, as he helps the bruised man toward the restaurant, tossing the ax handle several yards away into the brush.
Paul has already taken the other two inside for some ice for their broken nose and broken jaw, respectively, assuring them that his lover packs quite a wallop, and rubbing it in just a little by adding, "I tried to warn you not to pick a fight with him."
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