It looks like the time was coming to do some house cleaning.
It was just another bar — yet another bar. He was doing pretty much the only thing he had done ever since he got back. He had already hit most of the classics: walk in looking like a deranged vagabond (which, he had to admit, was an apt description of his condition), spend what little was left of his stolen money, and then having drink after drink, shooting at the bartender his most irritated "keep 'em coming" look while he felt his (stolen) wallet become increasingly lighter. You know, the kind of stuff your average stand up citizen would do.
Now, he hadn't always been a drunk. He was perfectly aware he looked positively pathetic. But he was past caring right now. Whatever little part of him was trying to be his conscience, it was being crushed into silence by 10,000 ml of alcohol. God, this place is depressing. I should have hit a strip club instead. Of course, in his current state, that would probably spell trouble for him.
Not that he wasn't in pretty deep shit currently. It was really, really late. Or really, really early, he couldn't tell. But he was pretty much the only one left, other than the grizzly fifty-something that passed for a bartender in this hell of a place, an orange cat just hanging around, and those two.
They were bikers. Dirty, unshaven, tattooed bikers. Not all that unlike himself, truth be told. They looked as smug as they were drunk in their leather jackets and other paraphernalia. One was on the older side, a heavy-set guy with long, greasy black hair and a beard to match it. The other was young and blond. But frankly? With enough beer in, they looked pretty much the same. It reminded him of something some social studies teacher had quipped when looking at photos of teen punks. Look at them, expressing their rebellious, non-conformist streak by dressing and acting exactly like everyone else in their subculture.
Isn't it closing time already? The bartender seemed to be thinking the same thing, as he was looking at all three of them wearily. It was easy to see why he hadn't kicked them out already. The bikers seemed to be looking for a fight. The older one was casually picking his fingernails with an army knife. He supposed the bar was so low tier it couldn't afford a bouncer. Or decent beer. And he was so low tier that he could only afford to drink here with the money he had left.
He drank the last of his beer and got up. The two amigos immediately fixed their gaze on him. Vultures.
"I think I'll be leaving now. Mind if I take a quick trip to the restroom?"
The bartender nodded slowly, looking worried, and pointed to a door in the back of the bar. The Hunterheart nodded in thanks and made his way there. Unsurprisingly, Pain and Panic got up without taking their eyes from him.
Granted, that may have been a little too much beer. He zipped his pants back up in time to see the bikers enter the restroom.
"Hey, Nate." Said the older one. God, did he hate it when people called him Nate. "It's been a long time. I can't believe you left without saying goodbye."
He turned back around and smiled to them. They couldn't to see his fangs, and he didn't bother to hide them. The effect was nonetheless threatening.
"So sorry for that, Jim. I would have loved to say goodbye to you all the way you deserve. But y'see, I kind of was in a rush." He proceeded in his fakest friendly tone. "I gotta say, though, it's really nice of you to come all the way here to give me a proper send off."
Jim grunted. He took out his knife again and started fidgeting with it.
"Cut the crap. You know why we're here. It was bad enough that you stole our money, but getting a whole bunch of us arrested? Not cool, man. You made us look really stupid. You didn't think we would just let that slide, did you?"
"Did I make you look stupid?" He raised his hand in an calming gesture. "Didn't mean to. Honest mistake. Really. I mean, seriously, I never thought you needed any help with that."
Now that pissed them right off. They both went up to him at the same time. They grabbed him by his neck and forcefully pushed him against the wall. He felt the impact hard on his back. There was a knife to his neck and bad breath to his nostrils as they closed in on him. He made a face at the stench of cheap beer.
"By the way, I think you two might be drunk."
"Don't be a smart-ass. It's gonna get you killed. Sooner than you think."
It was the first thing the younger guy — Isaac, was that his name? — said. He didn't sound happy.
"I'm an ass alright." He answered, still smiling. "Smart? Not really. Still smarter than you, though."
Jim pushed the knife harder against his neck until blood came out.
"Enough of this shit. Let's find out how many teeth do we have to knock out before you start screaming like a little girl. That's fun, yeah?
He tried to grab his chin in place.
The scream must have been heard even outside. Heck, the bartender must have known what was going on in his own restroom, but was smart enough to stay out of it. Still, that particular sound was one of pure pain and fear. In the middle of a windy night in a crapsack bar it must have been chilling.
Dirty Jim was down on the floor, still screaming and kicking in pain. He was holding his right hand with his left. It was bloody, and the reason why was hard to miss. Bite marks that looked made by very sharp fangs were all over it. His ring and middle fingers were missing. Well, not technically. They're right on the floor. Next to them, in a small puddle of blood, was his knife.
"What the fuck...?" Isaac, Ian or whatever his name was had completely lost his grip on the Beast. He was too busy looking shocked and terrified at his older friend.
He didn't give him a chance to snap out of him. A fist went right up to his face, hitting hard against his skull. He fell to the dirty bathroom floor, but the Hunterheart was on him in no time. He grabbed Blondie's head with both hands, forced him up and submerged it in the toilet.
He could feel every espasm in Blondie's body as he hopelessly struggled to get out of the water to catch a breath. Don't bother, pal. His primal, unadulterated dread was almost tangible to him as he counted the seconds. The whole atmosphere was so loaded with fear that the scent of Glamour had superseded all of the bar's usual, unpleasant fare. He waited, and waited, and waited. It didn't seem long for him, but he doubted Blondie would agree.
Then he let him go. The place was filled with the sound of Blondie's gasping for breath, right up until he kicked him in the face, knocking him out.
Next he went up to Oldie. He had somewhat recovered from the impression (and the pain, he guessed). You had to give it to him. He had enough presence of mind to try and reach for his knife. Before he could though, the Beast crushed his able hand with his foot until a distinct crack was heard, followed by yet another scream. He took the knife and sat on top of Oldie, putting it under the other man's beard.
"You kids think you're so fucking scary." He started angrily. "But it's all for show, isn't it? You talk the talk, but you can't even walk the walk. Just bully people with a knife and pick on whatever bastard who looks like he won't put up a fight, yeah?" He gripped the knife so hard against Jim's throat that the latter let out yet another pained moan. "Until you come across someone who really is fucking scary and get your lame asses kicked hard and good. It's a big bad world out there, Jimmy, and you're nowhere near the baddest fella around. Suck it up."
He didn't have time for this. He got up and dropped the knife. Before he left, he turned to take a last look at them.
"Get the fuck out of this city. I don't want to see you — any of you — ever again."
When he got out, the bartender was still there. A clock told him it had been only a little more than five minutes since the three of them got into the restroom. The bartender seemed agitated, aggressively pressing numbers on a phone. Brave man. Or really desperate. When he saw the Hunterheart, he froze.
"They won't give you any more trouble." He looked at the older man evenly. "Same with me."
A second passed. The other one nodded and stepped away from the phone. Better not to argue with the drunk and demonstrably dangerous hobo, right?
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