Warlord: Dervish by Tony Monchinski

mouthful of eggs.
    He was assuming everyone in this cafeteria was some kind of military. He thought about it and knew he had nothing to show for it. Everyone appeared to be dressed similarly to himself: dark blue t-shirts and shorts, white socks and sneakers. There was a dark-skinned guy a few tables over. Dark skinned, not black. Looked foreign to Jason. The woman across from him—the one who’d nodded—she was dark skinned too. Not as dark as the foreign-looking man, more olive-like. And she looked athletic: young and tall, lean and wiry. Straight black hair to her shoulders. Not unattractive.
    The four at the table…their hair grown out on their heads and to varying degrees on their faces. Their ages, Jason guessed, were all over the place. He pegged the smoker as somewhere in his fifties, while the youngest of the four—one of the guys who laughed at the wise-ass’ comments—was maybe in his late twenties. Something told Jason the smoker was the closest the group had to a leader. Something else told Jason he didn’t want to hang with those guys. He was just glad to be out of that cell…away from Dr. Kaku…away from the things they’d done to him.
    He was almost done with his food when a black guy came and stood directly across from him at his table. Jason looked up at the man and stopped chewing, a chunk of pancake on the tines of his fork.
    “You sittin’ in my seat,” the man challenged. Jason looked at him, ready to throw down. The guy was young but had one of those faces you’d think he was thirty, like Mook. He was about Jason’s height, but he carried more muscle in his chest and shoulders.
    “That right?” asked Jason. The table was between them. He figured the guy had an advantage standing like that with him seated, but Jason had a fork in his hand. Motherfucker come over the table at him, Jason would stick him in the neck. Like the woman he’d spoken to had looked ready to do to him.
    A smile broke out over the black man’s face. “Relax. I’m jus’ fuckin’ with ya.” Uninvited, he sat down at Jason’s table. “Welcome to the party, main.”
    Jason shook his head and then, in spite of himself, he grinned and stuffed the pancakes into his mouth.
    “See,” the black guy said, “I got cha.” Without further introduction he started wolfing down the food on his own dish. “This my second plate,” he managed between swallows. “Shit’s good.”
    “Yeah. It’s good.”
    “Finish up and go git yo’self more. Shit’s all-you-can-eat.”
    “You have any idea where we are?”
    The man didn’t look up from his plate. “Nah,” he replied, dismissively.
    “You know any of these people?”
    “Nope.”
    “Me neither. Name’s Jason.”
    “Jason?” The black guy put his fork down and looked disapprovingly at him. “ Jason ?” He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “I’m ‘a act like I didn’t hear that, okay?”
    “Why?”
    “Listen main—don’t go tellin’ people yo’ real name roun’ here. Aight?” “All right.” It didn’t make sense to him, but Jason didn’t want to challenge the man. It wasn’t that he feared the guy. He hoped to find out what he could from the man. And he was just glad he wasn’t sitting by himself any more.
    “I’m a call you—you know what I’m a call you?” The guy rubbed his chin as he considered Jason. “I’m a call you Buford. How’s that sound?”
    “Buford?”
    “Yeah. That tight, right?”
    “Not really.” Jason smirked and the other man did as well. “Why Buford?”
    “Come on main,” the guy said in a tone of mock-chastisement. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”
    “Know what?”
    “Buford Pusser.”
    “Buford who?”
    “Buford Pusser motherfucka.” The way the guy could call you motherfucker and not insult you. Yeah, this guy reminded Jason of someone. “You know, Walking Tall ?”
    Jason thought he had heard of that somewhere—was it a movie?—but he wasn’t sure. “Nah, I don’t