Page 17 of Total Carnage
I sized him up, noting the weathered lines on his face and the hard glint in his eyes. This wasn't some prospect or weekend warrior. Brock had miles on him, just like me. He was also one big motherfucker.
"That's right," I replied, extending a hand. "What brings St. Louis to this shithole?"
Brock’s grip was firm as he shook my hand. "Same thing that brings most of us anywhere—trouble and pussy," he chuckled darkly. "Nah, truth is, I'm on a supply run. Got some... merchandise... to pick up for the club."
I nodded, understanding the unspoken details. We settled onto adjacent barstools, a silent camaraderie forming between us.
"Heard some wild shit about you, man," Brock continued, signaling for a beer. "That business in Arizona? Fucking legendary. Almost drove out there to see the fucking crater left in the ground."
I felt a twinge in my chest, memories of blood and betrayal flashing through my mind. "Yeah, well, legends have a way of getting people killed." I shrugged. “Sorry, a lot of shit on my mind.”
Brock leaned in closer, his voice low. "Word is, you've got some scores to settle. That why you're here in bumfuck Kentucky?"
I studied him for a moment, weighing how much to reveal. Something about Brock’s straightforward manner put me at ease. "Let's just say I'm looking for someone. Someone I thought was long gone."
He nodded, understanding in his eyes. "Ain't that always the way? Past has a way of crawling out of the grave, don't it?"
"You got no fucking idea," I replied, thinking of my own impossible resurrection.
The creak of the bar's door caught my attention, and I turned to see a group of college kids stumble in, their laughter too loud, their voices grating. I looked around at the other patrons, most rough assholes but a few were also college students. "Fuck me," I said, catching Brock’s eye. "Looks like amateur hour just rolled in."
Brock snorted, taking a long pull from his beer. "Ten bucks says one of those dipshits tries to play big man within five minutes, thinking his grape-sized balls are the size of baseballs. Shit happens every time I come through here. And every time, I got to set them straight."
I didn't take the bet. The way these trust fund babies were eyeing us, trouble was brewing faster than the piss-water they called beer in this joint.
"Hey, grandpa!" one of the punks called out, his khaki shorts and popped collar screaming 'daddy's money.' "Isn't it past your bedtime?"
I felt my jaw clench, but kept my cool. Brock tensed beside me, but I gave him a subtle shake of my head. Not yet.
"You lost, boy?" I asked, my voice tinged with just enough warning that it gave him pause. "Daycare's down the street."
The kid's face flushed red, his buddies snickering behind him. "You think you're tough, old man? Why don't you and your boyfriend there take your midlife crisis somewhere else?"
I could feel the familiar fire building in my gut, the itch in my knuckles begging to teach this prick a lesson. But I'd been around long enough to know when to pick my battles.
"Listen up, you entitled little shits," I growled, standing slowly. The kid's bravado faltered as I towered over him. "I've pissed tougher men than you off my boots. So why don't you take your watered-down courage and fuck off before I decide to show you what real pain feels like?" I could see the conflict in the kid's eyes. The alcohol-fueled bravado warring with his survival instinct. His friends shifted nervously, suddenly realizing they might have bitten off more than they could chew.
The kid's fist came out of nowhere, a sloppy haymaker aimed at my jaw. I ducked it easily, muscle memory kicking in as I pivoted and drove my elbow into his sternum. He let out a wheezing gasp and crumpled.
"Shit's on now," I muttered, as his buddies surged forward.
Brock was at my back in an instant, our movements fluid and synchronized like we'd ridden together for years. A bottle whistled past my ear and I caught a glimpse of Brock snatching it mid-air, smashing it across some frat boy's face. "Just like old times, eh?" he chuckled darkly.
I grunted, ducking under a wild swing and driving my fist into a soft gut. "Less talking, more punching." The world narrowed to a blur of fists and bodies. I felt alive, that familiar rush of adrenaline singing through my veins. A kid tried to tackle me and I used his momentum to throw him over the bar, glasses shattering as he landed.
Brock and I moved like a well-oiled machine, covering each other's blind spots, tag-teaming the punks who thought they could take us. It wasn't just about winning the fight; it was about sending a message. We were brothers, forged in blood and gasoline, and you didn't fuck with that bond.
"Behind you!" Brock called out. I dropped low, feeling the whoosh of air as a pool cue sailed over my head. In one fluid motion, I swept the legs out from under the attacker, hearing the satisfying thud as he hit the floor.
As the last of the college boys stumbled away, clutching various body parts, I couldn't help but grin at Brock. "Not bad for a couple of old-timers, huh?"
He clapped me on the shoulder, his eyes gleaming with the same post-fight high I was feeling. "Damn straight. These punks don't know what real brotherhood looks like."
I nodded, feeling that familiar surge of pride and belonging. This was what it meant to be part of something bigger than yourself. To have someone at your back, no questions asked.
"Come on," I said, straightening my cut. "Let's get a drink. I think we've earned it."
The bar fell silent as Brock and I made our way back to our stools. The air was thick with the scent of spilled beer and sweat, but there was something else too. We’d earned the respect of every person in the bar. I could feel the eyes of the other patrons on us, their earlier wariness replaced by a mix of awe and curiosity.
