Page 30 of New Storm Rising
“Cabrón! What was that for? It was that pale-asspendejothat threw me!”
“Oh, trust me, buddy!” The desperado growled. “I know!” Then he raised the broken bottle and rushed towards Mr Ambrose.
With admirable practicality, Mr Spanish Minion 01 decided to forget about the bloody wound on his head, and dashed after him, ganging up on Mr Ambrose.
My oh my. Two on one. How unfair.
Whistling, I sat down and started counting my money. This was going to be fun.
Mr Rikkard Ambrose stood in front of the bar, calmly waiting. Any other man in his situation would grab a bottle to defend himself. But then again, if he grabbed a bottle, he would have had to pay for it. So he did the next best thing, and grabbed a man.
“Hey!” Spanish Minion 02 protested. “What do you think you are doing, you—”
That was the point where he was launched into the air and slammed into his compatriot. Arm in arm, the two lovebirds stumbled back, almost touching lips in a way that looked suspiciously like a…
Ehem.
I smirked.
Oh, how cute!
Utterly ignoring the splendid romantic comedy going on just a few feet away, Mr Ambrose rushed past them. Ducking underneath the swing of the broken bottle, he rammed his fist into the grizzly bear’s gut, then grabbed and twisted his wrist.
Crack!
“Aargh! Ya son of a—!”
But what exactly Mr Ambrose was a son of, we never found out. Shifting his grip on the man’s broken wrist, he pulled, catapulting the thug over his shoulder and into the bar. The back of his head slammed into a beer barrel, and he went out like a light.
“Cheers,” I told him, raised the mug of beer next to me, and took a deep gulp.
Mr Ambrose, meanwhile, turned towards his remaining two opponents, who had by now untangled themselves from their passionate embrace, and cocked his head. The meaning was clear.“You coming?”
Growling, the big Spaniard lunged forward, his smaller friend right on his heels. Before they even got within ten feet of my dear husband, Mr Ambrose grabbed a leg of the shattered table and slammed it into the thug’s throat. Gurgling, he stumbled backwards, leaving the smaller one wide open and alone.
“Um…olla, wait a minute, I—”
Wham!
One single punch from Mr Ambrose sent the fellow crashing to the floor, his nose ending up in one of those lovely tin pots that were helpfully provided to spit your chewing tobacco into. The Wild West was such a lovely place, wasn’t it?
I glanced down at the pile of cash in front of me.
Especially when you’ve got lots of money.
The other people in the crowd, who were watching the fight by now, also seemed to have realized which way the wind was blowing. Glancing between the two unconscious goons on the floor and the ginormous pile of coins in the paws of the smirking secretarial crossdresser, i.e. sweet little me, they lost more and more colour in their faces.
“Um…” Someone cleared his throat. “What you said earlier about betting money, buddy…you were just joking, right?”
“As a very intimate friend of mind is fond of saying,” I answered, smirking up at the man, “I. do. Not. Joke.”
“Um, but…”
“Especiallynot about money.”
“And what about changing one’s mind?” A little man with a wispy moustache, who had been so kind as to donate a full hundred dollars, leaned forward, sweat running down his forehead. “Ya wouldn’t begrudge a man changin’ his mind, would ya? That was actually grocery money my wife gave me for shopping, so…”
My grin widened. “So I guess you’ll get an interesting welcome when you come home?”
