 |
The Punchline
Page
2
|
Fish’s eyes widened in surprise. This was too much like
how it happened in the movies. He wondered briefly if Takagi had set
this up as one of his stupid practical jokes. A glance revealed his
companion’s face as unreadable.
“I
said what’re you doing in here?” insisted the man, stepping closer into
Fish’s personal space. Probably not a joke then – Takagi would know
better.
“I’m having a Professor Wallace,”
replied Fish.
All indicators now pointed to the intention of the
man. A
xenophobe. Probable main-liner bigot. Used to picking on any hybrids
who dared venture into his little world.
“Got some nerve showing that face in here,” the man continued
with voice raised. Other patrons hadn’t taken notice yet but the
bartender was watching while pretending he wasn’t. Fish said nothing.
Takagi looked amused.
“You’d better fuck off
out of here before someone sees you, mutie.” The man was working
himself up. Idly catching the scent of the man’s breath, Fish noticed
that it wasn’t an excess of alcohol making the man belligerent. He had
had very little to drink (Fish identified the brand of beer) and had
consumed no drug. Raw bigotry, it seemed, was the motivator here.
Fish’s cordiality vanished.
“Beat it, monkey,” he said flatly. He turned away
on his stool to face the bar.
That did it, thought Takagi, happily. He always enjoyed
mindless
violence, provided it ended agreeably. He leaned back against the bar
preparing to enjoy the inevitable brief display.
The man, like countless others before him, inhaled sharply
before taking a swing at Fish’s head. Whatever cause for hatred, if
any, the man had for a Deep One hybrid enjoying a tributary beverage to
a deceased political figurehead was about to be made physical.
In the intervening milliseconds as the aggressor’s hand flew
toward the cyborg’s cranium Fish lazily plucked the miniature umbrella
from his drink, closed the canopy and, holding the sharp,
olive-piercing end at a calculated angle pointing away from his ear,
groaned inwardly.
The fist burst in a bloom of
blood as it impaled itself upon the sharp cocktail umbrella. The man
screamed, people turned to look. The barman watched openly now, trying
to see if the situation would resolve itself or if bouncers needed to
be called.
“Mah hand! That mutie bit mah hand!” roared
the man, his accent revealing it’s hitherto suppressed xenostate timbre
as he yelled. “I’ll kill yer!”
Fish sent a quick glance at the barman who rolled his eyes.
Two
deft strokes on a keyboard set into the service side of the bar
summoned two security staff who promptly escorted the man off
the
premises, pursued by his bewildered colleagues, their conversations and
victuals instantly forgotten as they saw their raving friend’s wounded
hand.
“Sorry,” said Fish to the barman.
“Don’t mention it,” said the bartender, tossing
Fish a napkin to wipe off the man’s blood.
Takagi, a huge grin on his face, suddenly burst
out laughing.
“What’s so funny?” asked Fish.
“I thought you hated practical jokes!” cried
Takagi.
“I do.”
“Then why did you spike that guy’s punch?”
|
 |
|
|
|
|
