Tables Turned

Tables Turned

I sat at the counter of the bar, my hands resting on the wooden table, grasping my glass of cheap vodka. I drained the last bit and called for another in my thick Russian accent, looking up slightly from under my large hood but not meeting the bartender’s eyes.

He quickly prepared another for me, and I reached for it quickly, almost as if addicted. I wasn’t, of course, but I needed them to think I was.

The door creaked open behind me and a large group of men walked in loudly as if they owned the place. They may as well have. They immediately kicked people out of “their” booth, pushed people out of their way – and everyone complied. I understood why, of course. Just looking at them would be enough to send a man packing. But I knew that behind their brawn and muscle they were just a bunch of weaklings who liked to pretend they were big stuff simply because they were in a gang and carried guns. Not that they knew how to use them, of course.

I took another drink from my glass, the liquid warming my throat. I could feel it start to affect me, so I put it down casually before I drank too much. Even with my high tolerance for alcohol I had to be careful.

One of the men approached me from behind. “Hey buddy, outta the bar,” he said. I didn’t move. For some reason that was enough to provoke a fight with these idiots. But then again, that’s exactly what I wanted.

He reached out to grab my shoulder and in one quick move I turned, grabbed his arm and twisted before he even made contact. He yelped in pain, falling to his knees. I kicked him in his stomach to make sure he’d stay down and left my place at the bar, advancing toward the rest of his group as they faced me.

I took the first one out easily, side-stepping a blow and using it to my advantage, hooking my foot in his and causing him to fall hard on the wooden floor. He hit his nose first and immediately a pool of blood began to form.

As the second approached I grabbed a chair to help defend myself; his first two blows landed on the hard wood, after which I side-stepped and hit the chair over his head. I quickly stepped to the side again, onto and over a table, kicking the table over afterwards. I turned two more tables before I faced my attackers again, now coming at me more slowly and spread-apart.

Taking them easily one by one, I bested them all.

“Tell me boys,” I said, my accent thick, “how does it feel getting beaten by a girl?”

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