Call Me Joe by Steven J Patrick Page B

to have shared his shipments of steroids.
     
    He looked up and saw me and elbowed his companion. The three rose as one and started our way.
     
    “Trouble,” I said to Simmons.
     
    “Hey, fuck face," Weber shouted. “Who invited your faggot ass into my bar?”
     
    “Aaron, Goddamnit!" The women behind the bar shouted. Weber gave her a curt, dismissive wave.
     
    “Shut the fuck up, Doris,” Weber snapped.
     
    The three came up to us and Weber’s two buddies swung out to flank us. It was obviously a maneuver they’d used before.
     
    I looked at the three. Simmons stood with his hip against the side of the booth, arms folded, a small smile playing about his mouth.
     
    “You want me to handle this, swabbie?” he chuckled.
     
    “I got it,” I sighed. I looked at Weber, whose eyes swam glassily in his ruddy face, like two slimy peas in tomato soup.
     
    “Not so fuckin’ smart now, are ya, fuck face?” he leered.
     
    “Why’s that, son?” I replied mildly. “Because you got two other peckerheads to watch your back? What part of those two ass kickins' I gave you earlier did you not understand?”
     
    “You used that trick gook shit,” Weber sneered. “If you had to fight like a man, I’d smash your ass into the dirt.”
     
    “ ’Trick gook shit'?” I replied. “Son, I hit you in your diaphragm with my fist, just like any boxer, in any gym, in any town, in America. If I had used the ‘gook shit', as you call it, you’d be in the hospital in Spokane right now.”
     
    “Shit,” one of his buddies spat, “You sucker punched him! Everybody ‘round here is smart enough to know you don’t mess with Aaron.”
     
    “He told you I suckered him, huh?” I chuckled.
     
    I sighed and then looked at each of them in turn.
     
    “Boys,” I said quietly. “You’re about to make a big mistake now, all because junior here has some sort of problem with the truth. You have five seconds to walk away, or all three of you are going to the hospital tonight. So…what’s it gonna be?”
     
    The one on the right laughed out loud.
     
    “You really think you three old fuckers can take us?”
     
    “No,” I sighed. I suddenly felt very tired and was seized with the curious feeling that I could actually feel my I.Q. dropping, “Not the three of us. I’m going to take all three of you by myself.”
     
    A crowd had gathered and a low ripple passed through it.
     
    “Bullshit,” Weber sneered. “We turn our backs and those two whack us with beer mugs.”
     
    “We ain’t got a beer yet, kid,” Simmons said quietly, “We’re just gonna watch here."
     
    He sat in the booth and scooted all the way to the wall. He put his hands under his butt and leaned back.
     
    “Happy?” he grinned.
     
    Weber, to his credit, looked a bit uneasy.
     
    “Now,” I said softly. “I’m going to count to five. If you’re not gone by that time, I’m going to hurt all of you quite badly. I’m going to do it in less than 10 seconds, and then I might have you arrested to boot…one.”
     
    One of two things will happen when you count into a fight. The really dumb ones will wait for five and then take a completely predictable swing or lunge like a drunken cow. The meaner ones will go early, usually on three.
     
    Weber lunged on three.
     
    I shot out three fingers into his neck and chopped the bridge of his nose with the other hand. As he screamed and fell, I kicked to the right and felt four or five of the kid’s ribs go at once. I pivoted and swung the same foot into the jaw of the third kid. I heard his teeth slam together, a sound like somebody dropping ball bearings into a tile shower.
     
    I stood and looked around.
     
    Weber was flat on his back, blood gushing from his nose and breathing only with great effort.
     
    The kid on the right was struggling to sit up and screaming every time he tried. The last kid was on his hands and knees, spitting pieces of teeth into a pool of blood beneath