Bar Fight!

A favorite action scene reprised from the Maroli Tango first draft, later in the narrative as a consequence of re-structuring the book, colorized for your enjoyment. 

Arlington, Virginia

The landing zone was a dumpster farm behind a strip mall, half a block from a franchise bar and grill. Citra, Mason Fowlkes’ 9-meter spaceboat, was parked inconspicuously alongside a semi-trailer with a flat tire.

The sun had been down half an hour. A dusk-to-dawn fixture above a mattress store loading dock was the only ambient light source. Somebody, somewhere, was smoking a cigarette.

A size-two maroli loitered with a pair of size-ones in the semi-trailer’s shadow, tentacles quivering as though engaged in lively conversation.

Brandon Lopez, attired in battle gear, lurked on the other side in the manner of a man scouting a place to pee.

Carmen Benequista greeted Marie with important information to share. She said, “Look for Mason in the family room, at the northeast corner.”

Marie’s fighting drones followed her into the establishment at ankle height, invisible, then broke away at a partition wall to find high ground.

The restaurant was noisy. As promised, Mason had a corner table with a good view of the bar area.

He said, “I didn’t know you were coming, or I would have waited on dinner.”

She took a seat. “My internal clock is so confused, there’s no way I could eat.”

“Do you want my water?”

“Yes, I do.” She scooted her chair in his direction. “What’s the situation?”

Mason leaned in. “There’s this guy who mouthed off on national TV about targeting Carmen’s family. He’s parking his car outside, right now.”

“How is he being tracked?”

“Cell phone telemetry. Parity Services has been listening to our conversations since telegraph days.”

Minutes later, a man and two women came through the front door, conversing as if all three were deaf.

The man said, “I’m going to take that stupid bitch down.”

The trio went straight to the bar, ordered martinis, wiggled fat bottoms onto wobbly high-chairs and laughed as though sharing a delicious joke.

Whereupon Carmen Benequista strode into the establishment with Brandon Lopez and Daryl Price on her heels.

She trotted up to the bar, snatched her victim off his perch and punched him in the stomach with a close-quarters riot baton.

The man fell to his knees, vomiting. His female companions flubbed the dismount, toppled off their seats, and staggered into the tentacles of the maroli brothers, Virgil and Pascal.

Barflies scattered. The bartender gave Carmen the eyeball. “You got a beef, take it outside.”

“Nope, we’re doing it right here.” Carmen gave her victim a whack on the collarbone. “You’re going to take the stupid bitch down, are you?”

He shouted in pain. She whacked a knee. “You really pissed me off, you know that?”

Bar patrons crowded in for a better view. One of them asked, “Who are you?”

She replied, “I’m your President.”

There was a smattering of applause. A woman in the crowd said, “Fuck him up.”

Carmen stepped on the man’s hand. She said, “Piss me off again, I’ll dump you in the river.”

Banger the size-two maroli stared down an off-duty police detective. Brandon and Daryl cleared an exit route.

The restaurant manager held the front door. Carmen told her, “You can call my chief of staff if you have complaints.”

The woman replied, “No complaints, ma’am. Have a good evening.”

Mason and Marie waited at their table for an opportunity to depart unnoticed. Meanwhile, Carmen’s victim laid on the floor by the bar stand, crying pitifully.

A good Samaritan knelt by his side, saying, “Don’t try to get up. EMTs are on the way.”

Marie held onto Mason’s hand on their way out. She said, “I can’t help but feel sorry for him.”

He replied, “The enemy experiences pain and suffering just like we do.”

They parted ways at the strip mall. She said, “You still owe me a date.”

Image by Natalia Koroshchenko from Pixabay