Original Cindy was still shaking her head in disbelief at the sorry state of her cultural and social life at this particular moment, when the shiner-adorned bartender came back with a cold bottle of beer. She got a three-dollar bill out of her wallet— President James on it, appropriately— and the bartender snatched the bill from her fingers.
“Damn!” she said. “Go on and help your damn self, why don't you?”
The bartender walked away.
“No wonder you a damn raccoon,” she mumbled, then: “Keep the change, Prince Charmin'!”… even though she knew he'd already assumed as much.
She sipped at the beer, hoping to make it last. At these prices being sober was looking like a reasonable option. Besides, this joint with that band and these patrons wasn't worth more than one beer and fifteen minutes of her life. No one who shared her particular worldview seemed to frequent this establishment, and if she didn't want more biker run-ins, the best bet would be to drink up and get the hell out of this zoo.
She swigged her suds and, considering this was Original Cindy anyway, kept a low profile. Nonetheless, the bikers stared at her, making her more uncomfortable than she would care to admit.
She wasn't afraid— hell, nothing scared her, except maybe life itself; but thirty bikers to one black ex-soldier seemed like shitty odds. Killing the beer, she turned toward the door just as the biker she'd pounded came staggering in, drunk (more from her beating than beer), his mouth twisted in an angry snarl, blood still trailing down his chin like a sloppy vampire.
“
you get yours, you black bitch,” he bellowed, though the words came out slurred and mushy because he was drunk and no longer had all his teeth.
The band kept playing; but every eye in the bar had already turned to the door, and now swiveled to Original Cindy. After all, no one in here had missed her entrance…
“Oh, maaaan… I thought I was done with your sorry ass,” she said, and looked around at the other patrons, to court their support. Once a fight was finished, the fight was finished, right? Get on with your damn lives!
But the bikers were closing into a loose semicircle around her, putting the bar at her back, leaving a path for the drunk to get to her.
Again the burly biker edged toward her, and he had that damn blade in his hand again. The circle began to close in, providing a compact stage for the coming action.
So she struck first, picking up the beer bottle and smashing it over the head of the nearest biker, who collapsed in a heap. The band finally noticed that no one was listening to them and stopped playing, providing an awful, deathly silence.
Original Cindy tore a hole in it:
She gestured to herself with both hands, entering the center of the circle, oozing bravado, saying, “Then come on— plenty to go 'round!”
Unfortunately for her, they took her invitation.
There was little room to maneuver, this close to the bar, and although she got one biker across the bridge of the nose with a straight right, and another in the groin with a knee, it was only a matter of time before the bikers had swarmed her, pinning her on the floor like a dead butterfly in a collector's book. They held her down, tight, spread-eagled, and took turns copping obnoxious feels until the burly bastard she'd already defeated outside now fought his way through the crowd.
“You ain't so cocky now, are ya, bitch?”
She glared up at him, playing the only card she had. “You gutless pussy— afraid to take on a girl by your ownself? Gotta have your buddies hold her down?”
He leaned over and slapped her and it sounded like a gunshot, ringing off the cement of the former monkey house, and her head exploded in pain accompanied by colorful starbursts.
“I'm about to accept your
bitch… ”
Spitting blood up into his face, Original Cindy said, “I
you to stop callin' me that!”
He reared back a snake-draped arm to hit her again, but before he could strike, a small hand gripped the biker's thick wrist.
The olive-skinned young woman in black leather jacket and pants was petite if shapely, and she had slipped through the circle of bikers without anyone thinking to stop her. Those who'd noticed merely admired her lithe yet voluptuous figure; a few others were amused to see such a little thing walk out into the center ring of this circus.
But now they all froze, including Original Cindy's antagonist, whose nostrils flared and eyes widened, as he turned to see who dared interrupt him— and who it was that belonged to the viselike grip on his wrist.
“Walk away,” the young woman advised him.
“You… gotta… be…
” the biker said, upper lip peeling back over a smile that now had a few holes in it.
The young woman smiled back. From the floor where the other bikers still had her pinned, Original Cindy basked in the radiance of the stranger's smile, expecting the sweet thing to soon be joining her on the floor, where together they'd pull a horrible biker train…
“Yeah,” the young woman said, little smile, little shrug. “I'm just kiddin' around.”
Still holding on to his wrist, the black-clad girl thrust a sideways kick that caught the biker behind the knee, and sent him to the floor, kneeling hard. From her awkward vantage, Original Cindy couldn't focus on what happened next.
The leather-clad woman became a dervish, striking, spinning, striking again, again, kicks knocking the bikers every which way. Suddenly finding herself free, Cindy jumped to her feet, catching only the blur as her unlikely rescuer threw dropkicks and fists into one biker after another, like a damn Bruce Lee movie; but that burly biker who'd started it all was getting onto his feet, that knife still in one hand.
Original Cindy slammed a small hard fist into the side of his head and sent him down, even as the girl in leather threw a casual kick sideways, knocking the knife from the man's grasp. The biker was still on his feet, but groggy; Original Cindy doubled him over with a knee in the groin, and his mouth gaped in a silent scream until she closed it for him with a hard right.
And for the second time tonight, the big biker with the tiny mind fell to the floor barely conscious, spitting teeth like seeds.
In less than thirty seconds, the only people still standing in the bar were the band, the bartender, and the two women. The others were in various stages of semiconsciousness, moaning, rolling into fetal balls, a few crawling off, looking for a corner to bleed in.
“I'm Max,” the young woman said.
“Original Cindy.”
Max raised a fist and Original Cindy touched it with a fist of her own; neither had even bloodied a knuckle in the brawl. The bartender was smiling— maybe whoever had given him his shiners had gone down in this melee; he handed the two victors cold-sweating beers and held his palms up: no charge.
Toasting with the brew, Max said, “You can handle yourself, girl.”
“Sister girl,” Original Cindy said as she surveyed the damage, “you got a move or two your ownself.”
“Think maybe we should bounce?”
“Yeah, things've kinda died down around the ol' Monkey House, don't you think?”
“A little dull?”
“I don't think these people wanna party no more.”
Winding casually through the casualties, the two women walked out of the bar.
“Those peckerwoods are lucky you come along,” Original Cindy said, hitching her shoulders.
