“An asshole in uniform is still an asshole,” Colonel Hunter, Gage’s mentor, had said to Gage no less than a dozen times.
Fifteen seconds of relative silence passed. Gage hoped the two idiots were finally done. Maybe they’d worn themselves out. He turned his eyes to the screen. In the first flashback, the main character thought back to his mother who had passed away while he was deployed. This hearkened memories in Gage’s mind of his family who’d been killed in a car wreck. Until…
“That boy’s mama’s kinda hot. You know that milkman was gettin’ him some, droppin’ off his own cream ever’ Tuesday.”
“Ha! Phil, boy…you somethin’ else. You would be daydreamin’ ‘bout another man’s cream, wouldn’tcha?”
“Shhh!” a woman to Gage’s left hissed.
“You shhh, you old bitch!” one of the punks countered.
Gage had gripped the arm rests, just preparing to stand when the couple who had left reappeared, followed by what appeared to be the youngish theater manager. The manager wore a burgundy vest and carried a small flashlight. He was slight enough that a stiff breeze might knock him over. The husband pointed to the two assholes. The manager walked to them, leaning down and speaking quietly to the two men.
“You go to hell,” one of the punks replied.
“Yeah, I’d like to see you make us leave,” the other one chimed in.
Gage squeezed both eyes shut, his fingernails biting into the hard plastic of the armrest.
“I’m not going to escort you out,” the manager said, straightening. “I’ll just call the police and let them do it.”
“Won’t do you no good,” one of the punks retorted. “We do this shit all the time. Takes the cops an hour and they don’t even charge us with nuthin’, if they even come at all.”
“Yeah, mister fancy pants…so why don’t you piss off back to your boyfriend with that little vest of yours.”
After they’d called his bluff, the manager was clearly bewildered over how to handle the situation. The twenty or so people in the theater watched the scene playing out in front of them, rather than the movie they’d come to see.
“So, you won’t leave?” the manager asked.
“Do the words ‘fuck-you’ mean anything to you?” one of the punks asked, the two fist-bumping afterward.
“Fine,” the manager said. “I’m calling the police.”
Gage stood. “Don’t call the police.”
The manager’s head whipped around. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t call the cops.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll handle this, that’s why.”
As the lights danced onscreen, the two punks gleefully turned around in their seats.
“Somebody ready to get an ass whippin’?” one of them challenged, his voice having dropped several octaves.
Gage flung the bottle of Dasani water like a fastball from close range, striking the left punk squarely in the middle of his face.
A liter of water, at room temperature, weighs approximately 2.2 pounds. In comparison, a softball weighs less than half a pound. Meaning, the bottle of water was quite heavy—and Gage threw it with great force.
The punk yelped as his head was snapped backward like he’d been punched. Dazed, he slumped to his side and rubbed his face. Gage marked him as about 20 years old with a thin, athletic build.
Now the other one was on his feet. He was heavier and more imposing. “Hey man, who the hell you think you are, hittin’ Phil with a bottle?”
Gage eyed the manager. “You got a radio?”
“Yes,” he answered, unclipping a Motorola from his belt.
“Call upstairs and tell them to stop the film, then bring the lights up.”
“But I’m not allowed to do—”
“Do it.”
The assistant manager raised the radio to his mouth.
Gage exited his aisle and walked to the ten-foot deep gap between the front row and the movie screen. Both punks were now standing. The unsteady one who’d been hit with the water bottle was saying something to his buddy, but Gage couldn’t hear them.
As the screen went dark, the lights came on, casting ugly, harsh light over the theater. What had once looked shadowy and cozy now appeared filthy and worn. But all eyes were on the man standing front and center. He wore a faded black t-shirt, old jeans and a pair of black engineer boots. Most people would guess he was in his mid-forties, clearly still physically fit and built like an NFL safety. His short sandy hair was mussed, his face covered in stubble. But it was the fierce, concentrated scowl that left no doubt over what he aimed to do.
With the film having been stopped and silenced, Gage pointed his index fingers at the two punks. He then curled them, as if to say, “Come on.”
Neither moved. The audience was rapt.
“Come on down boys,” Gage said in a conversational tone. “Time to show your cards.”
“We didn’t come here to fight,” the punk who got hit with the bottle said.
“Neither did I, but you made it clear that a call to the police won’t stop you. So, come on. Talking’s over.”
Both punks’ eyes found the floor.
“Now,” Gage demanded.
The two punks murmured something to each other.
“Don’t talk to each other. Talk to me.”
“We don’t…um…we don’t want to fight you,” the heavier one said. After nodding at one another, both men sat down.
Gage rested his hands on the front row seat backs. “Why not?”
“We were just having some fun.”
Gage motioned to the audience. “Were they having fun? They came to watch a movie in peace. You two set out to make sure they were miserable.” He paused. “Show everyone you can back up all your big talk. Come on.”
Neither man moved.
Gage walked around and entered the
