A Cell in San Antonio
A John Rain Fan Fiction, Episode 3, Part 2
The drunken fool…
By my fourth shot of pool, I had eight shot glasses lined up next to my beer. I’d taken to shooting the Tequila, and then lifting the beer mug to my lips to spit the alcohol out, all the while appearing as if I were chasing the fiery drink down. The level of the half-filled Cerveza rose, but no one seemed to notice. I made sure everyone both saw and heard me when I knocked back each shooter, smiling, acting foolish. Misao followed my lead. She added in trips to the bathroom, carrying her mug in a nonchalant way where she flushed the expelled liquor down the toilet. Twice, she switched her mug for mine, and I ordered another round.
Next to us, the Bandidos watched, alternately annoyed and amused by my seeming drunkenness. Prison tats’ eyes kept straying to Misao’s backside, admiring her curves when she bent over to line up a shot. I swayed on my feet, feigning a burp, and wandered up behind her.
“No, no. You are doing it all wrong,” I said. Then I leaned over her, reaching around suggestively to help her line up the point of the stick to the cue. I whispered in her ear, “Time to start an argument. Tell me to back off. As soon as the fight starts, get out.” I let my hand run up her arm and down her side to grip her hip in plain sight of anyone watching.
“Back off!” She threw me off and spun around, gripping the pool stick in front of her like a barrier. “How dare you! Just because we’re having drinks doesn’t give you the right to rub up on me, buster!”
I pretended to lose my balance and stumbled, before righting myself. “Hey, I was just, you know, trying to be helpful. Don’t pretend you didn’t like it.”
Her eyes flashed, and from my peripheral, I saw Prison Tats step around his table and come stand between us. He turned his back towards her and stared me down.
“She said don’t touch her, man. Can’t you hear?”
His two friends slowly flanked me as I knew they would, one around behind my back, and the other circling up behind Misao. The three gang-bunnies sitting against the wall got up fast, and ran to the front of the bar, near the exit.
“This is not your business, Beaner.” I threw the derogatory word at him, aiming to anger. It worked.
“What the fuck did you call me, slant eyes?” His face pulled tight around the corners of lips and his eyes narrowed.
Direct hit.
“I called you a Beaner. You eat beans, don’t you?” I sniffed the air. “Smells like it too. Or did you maybe shit yourself?”
That was all it took. Prison Tats swung the pool stick at my head. I spun around, and catching his arm, used his own momentum to fling him over my shoulder. He landed on the pool table. The Bandido behind me gripped me in a bear hug around the waist, lifting me up as the second flunkie ran straight at me. I kicked out, connecting with his head, cracking his jaw. He stumbled and banged his head on the edge of the opposite table, knocking himself out. One down.
Prison Tats got up while I struggled to break the hold of the one behind me.
“I’m going to fuck you up, Esse!” He pulled a knife from the inside of his cut.
I laughed out loud. “You and what army, bean breath?”
He roared, charging. I threw myself back, head-butting my captor. His grip loosened, and I dropped to my feet, sinking low. Prison Tats aimed wide, but still sliced his friend across the cheek as he tripped over me, knocking them both to the ground.
“Goddammit, Hector,” Prison Tats yelled. “Sorry, Vato!” He got up, coming for me again.
This time, he waited, calculating my next move. “That Chink shit ain’t going to save you. All you’ve done is make me mad.”
I stayed loose, remembering I was supposed to be drunk, and swayed back and forth. “I’m Japanese, you ape.”
“Big dif!” He faked with his knife hand, and then swung out with a punch.
I saw it coming, and let it connect. I’d need a bruise or two to go with the story of being attacked. He’d come at me first, after all.
“Ha! More of that coming, slant eyes!”
The one he called Hector tried to rush me. I spun, taking him with me, and threw him across the room.
“The police are on their way!” The bartender shouted at us.
Prison Tats either wasn’t listening or didn’t care. He came at me again. This time, I didn’t let him land a punch. Instead, I fired off several of my own punches aimed at his sternum, abdomen, and finally, his throat. He was stunned, breathing paralyzed, and unable to draw breath for more seconds than anyone is comfortable experiencing. He wouldn’t die, but the terror in those moments would stay with him.
Sirens rose above the din of the loud music. Hector got up, glanced at his friend, and ran out the back door. Prison Tats lay with his eyes popped wide, gripping his throat, and gasping. Finally, he sucked in a noisy breath, then two, then three, and rolled over to vomit. Struggling to his knees, he stood on shaky legs and followed his friend out the back door.
I looked around the room at the remaining crowd, and, acting confused, crumpled to the ground. As the police rushed in through the front, one thought registered. Misao was gone. She’d made it out. I was now on my own. Good.
Get caught up on last week’s episode here.
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