hold up my hands in apology as the guy calls me an asshole fifty different ways. Hellion might be a simple language, but it can be colorful.
The last thing I want tonight is trouble, so I toss the rest of the Aqua Regia at an oil drum full of trash. And miss. The next thing I hear is someone shouting.
I know that tone. I look over at him. If I stay, there’s going to be boots and fists. If I run, I’m going to have six red leggers after me. Not exactly low profile. He and his buddies are headed this way. Basically, I have two options that add up to no options.
Sorry, Bill, but I wasn’t the one who let you down. It was the Aqua Regia.
The offended legger is a head taller than me, built long and brawny. His friends are behind him. Dirty faces. Filthy clothes. Country boys who just rolled into town and are seeing the sights when a big-city drunk practically pees on their legs. No way they’re going to be at all cool about this.
Still. I say, “Sorry. My fault. I can probably find someone to clean them for you.”
If looks could kill, I’d be one grave over from Gabby Hayes right now.
The legger looks at his liquored boots and then at me.
He says, “Keep your money. Come over here and clean them yourself. With your tongue.”
His friends laugh. I don’t like leggers at the best of times, and this is not one of those.
Behind him is a squat legger with a soft fish face and eye patch.
“I would, but it would just make your girlfriend over there jealous.”
Damn. Did I say that out loud? Maybe some of these fights are my fault after all.
The expression on Dirty Boots’ face lets me know he’s exactly dumb enough to get bent out of shape by such an obvious bait line. I know what’s going to happen next but now I know that these are just infantry blockheads and not ninjas in disguise.
The trick in this kind of situation is to move first and keep moving no matter what. They’ll think you’re crazy and hold back maybe long enough for you to get away. But they’re still six trained killers. Even in Lucifer’s armor, they can kill me, but not before I take out a few of them first.
I sprint straight at them. Five of them peel off out of the way. The sixth, a bearded Hellion who’s gone hungry long enough that his uniform is too big for him, pulls a KA-BAR from his boot and lunges at me.
Even drunk, I’m twice as fast as this backwoods benchwarmer. When he misses with the knife, he leaves himself wide open. I put my boot into his balls, and when he doubles over in pain, I bring my knee up to break his nose. He goes down spewing black blood, and right on cue, his five friends wake up and bum-rush me.
There’s not much to do when you’re on the bad end of this kind of pile-on except to keep punching and wait for an opening.
I duck, get my hands up in front of my face. Bob and weave. Throw the occasional jab just to remind them that I’m in here somewhere. Half the time they’re smacking the armor, so the beating could be a lot worse. What I don’t want is for them to get me on the ground, where they can take turns doing Olympic high dives onto my face.
The terrible truth is that I kind of like the beating. It’s not like when I got ambushed on the bike. This I saw
