Swords of Exodus [Dead Six 02] by Larry Correia, Mike Kupari Page B

back to Ling’s place, which, in this case, was a cheap motel we had picked because it was mostly empty and had a poorly lit parking lot. I had no doubt Ling could handle herself, but her men didn’t like the idea of leaving their commander alone with a rapist any longer than they had to.
    The jukebox changed to Black Sabbath. Good stuff. I hadn’t gone by the name of Ozzie during the time I worked with Switchblade for nothing.
    Evil minds that plot destruction
    Sorcerers of death’s construction
    I hummed along as I gently moved through the crowd. We had lots of work to do tonight so I was a little preoccupied. I froze when a hand landed on my shoulder.
    “Where you think you’re goin’, shitface?” It was Captain Morgan, and he was drunker and braver than when Ling had insulted his manhood by refusing his offer of a beer. “You’re friends with that oriental bitch.”
    “Hey, man, she blew me off too. Let me buy you a beer,” I turned around, all smiles. The Captain’s hand curled around the collar of my flannel shirt. “Man, I love this song. Don’t you love this song?”
    Now in darkness, world stops turning
    As the war machine keeps burning
    “You think I’m stupid? I saw you talking. Thinking she’s all too good for me? Then she leaves with that fuck head? Like he’s better than me?” He was shouting now. A couple of other guys stood behind him, obviously his friends, grinning stupidly. “And you, you little prick. I never seen you ‘round here before. Where the fuck do you get off comin’ in here and stealin’ all the pussy?”
    And here we go. Years of experience told me how this was going to turn out.
    “Didn’t Patrick Swayze beat you up in Road House ?”
    The Captain’s brow scrunched in drunk confusion. “Huh?” Then in drunk anger. “Oh, you wanna dance, boy? You think you’re tough?”
    It doesn’t matter what country you’re in. There are places like the Golden Manatee everywhere and the inhabitants are always the same. The adrenaline began to flow as Ozzie got to my favorite part of “War Pigs.”
    Day of judgment, God is calling
    On their knees, the war pigs crawling
    Begging mercy for their sins
    Satan laughing spreads his wings
    “All right now,” I said, as I grabbed the hand on my shirt, dropped my elbow, and bowed my head. The Captain screamed as the pressure hit his wrist. He went right to his knees. “I don’t want any trouble,” I said calmly. He reached into his pocket with his other hand and pulled out a knife. Idiot.
    I levered his arm and snapped his wrist before stepping back and kicking him in the face. I was wearing heavy work boots to fit in with the crowd, and the steel toe removed his front teeth.
    “He hit Chet!” someone shouted. This asshole looks like a Chet. One of Captain Chet’s friends charged me. I ducked the clumsy blow, and brought my knee into his stomach. The moose kept going, and went head first into the pool table.
    “The Mexican broke my arm!” Chet screamed from the floor. I suppose all brown people look the same to guys like Chet. “Help me, Timbo!”
    A giant of a man stood up from a nearby table, dumping the two girls sitting on his lap to the floor. “Who hit my little brother?” He bellowed. That had to be Timbo, and he was bigger than my old buddy Train, bigger than Bob, bigger than Antoine, like holy shit, that’s one big motherfucker big.
    “The Mexican!” the Captain cried, pointing his good arm at me. So much for low profile.
    “Come on, boys, let’s get him!” Timbo said. Half a dozen other brutes stood up from their tables. The number-one sport in Tickville was whooping ass, and it looked like I was playing for the visiting team.
    The sound of a shotgun getting a shell pumped into the chamber was loud enough to hear over the jukebox. All eyes fixated on the owner, a heavyset, surly-looking, middle-aged woman named Betty. “Take it outside, Timbo!” she ordered. “You wreck my place one more time and I swear