Page 107 of Why Cheese?
Roq’s eyes go red. “No one hits my friends!” Screaming from the bowels of hell, he whirls on the man holding him, wrenches the guard’s arm back, and hefts him off of the ground. More bouncers come running from behind the bar. Brie and Cheddy square up while Cam smashes a glass over the one that hit him.
In a blink of an eye, the bar brawl begins.
“Owe. Owe. Ah… Owe.”
“It’s your own damn fault. If you hadn’t shouted ‘Have at thee, cur,’ and hurled that table, you wouldn’t be limping, Cheddy.”
“How was I supposed to know it’d throw out my back? Owe. Owe.”
“Does this help?” I ask, trying to duck lower while his arm is slung across my shoulder.
He squeezes my waist and smiles at me. “No. Owe. But thank you for trying. It only stings if I breathe.”
“So cease breathing,” Cam says, a whistle warbling through his two missing teeth. I suggested we get him to a dentist, but all he did was scoop them up and shoo away my concern.
“Anyone else suspect he’s fishing for sympathy?” Roq booms from behind. He’s sporting not one but two black eyes, one of which came from an errant blow by Brie.
I’d think it was done on purpose, but Brie is nursing his injured hand. He keeps almost touching the split knuckles, then hisses in pain and looks away.
“I saved your buttocks. I deserve sympathy,” Cheddy says. “Owe.”
“You leaped on top of a man’s back and tried to ride him through the bar,” Roq says.
Cheddy absently scratches his head. “Well, it saved you, didn’t it?”
They answer with an exhausted sigh while we limp as a team back toward the cheese shop. I keep bracing myself for cops or, I don’t know, a SWAT team to come after these dangerous individuals. But the street’s quiet, the clock striking five. The night owls have fled to their coops and the early birds are still brewing their coffee. It’s a rare time when the city belongs to no one but the men who become cheese and the woman caught in their orbit.
“I must admit,” Cam says, “it was rather entertaining watching you dual wield those bottles like clubs.”
“You could have told me they were empty,” Roq says.
“That would have ruined the fun. How’s the leg?”
“Full of glass. Thanks.”
Cam slaps him across the back. “All we need to patch you up is a warm rag and a bottle of whiskey.”
A full-body cringe knots up Roq, but it’s Brie who mutters, “Don’t use that word.”
“Which one? Bottle? Whiskey?”
Brie moans and clutches his head. “What did I do to myself?”
“Put your liver through its paces. But come sunrise, it’ll be cheese, and you won’t feel a thing.”
“We’re almost home,” I say.
“Thank god,” all four men exclaim. I help Cheddy limp his way inside. They take the door one by one, holding it for each other until Roq’s standing alone. I manage to guide Cheddy to the ground where he grabs his chin and, whip-fast, cracks his neck.
“That’s the stuff.”
Cam leaps onto one of the counters and leans over to pick up—sure enough—another bottle of wine. Brie catches him doing it, then spins around and faces the trash can. Cam cries out, “Please save the vomiting for after our celebratory party. To…”
One by one, Cam, Brie, Cheddy, and I all look to Roq still standing out in the metaphorical cold. It’s actually July and muggy as hell out, but saying he’s standing in the heat doesn’t have the same metaphorical pop.
“What are you doing, old man?” Cam asks.
“Come on inside,” I say.
