2007-06-06: Evicting the Midgets

Starring:

Jack_icon.gif Trina_icon.gif

Summary: Bar fight at the Den of Iniquity. Jack's insurance company must haaaate him.

Date It Happened: June 6, 2007

Evicting the Midgets


Brooklyn, NYC - Den of Iniquity

The Den of Inequity is aptly named. A dive bar of the highest order situated in the heart of Brooklyn, it's prominant characteristics are cheap liquor, easy women, cigarette burns, and the heavily musky, otherwise indefinable smell that permeates the atmosphere. A bar formed from the rusted, welded-together wings of retired biplanes dominates one long wall of the small, rectangular room. A sheet of thick glass sits atop it, providing a smooth surface to set drinks upon and a barrier between the metal hulks and whatever patrons may arrive that bear delicate sensabilites. The customers around it are a mix of old codgers nursing boilermakers, Irishmen drinking dark beer and whiskey, working-class men stopping for a nightcap after finishing up for the day (or a bracer on the way to the job) and the barflies that attend to all of them with too-red smiles and lifeless eyes.
Behind the three pool tables in the center of the room and the jukebox against the wall there are three doors at the rear of the pub. Men's and women's restrooms, and a door prominently marked 'PRIVATE' in white-on-red lettering. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors cover the rest of the wall on either side of the door. Hung high up are a series of signs that read things like, 'Unmarked Nuclear Warheads Travel These Roads - Keep Your Children Radiation Free,' and 'Caution - Hitchhikers May Be Escaped Inmates.'
Early evening on a Friday is the Den's busiest shift. The working crowd is off for the week, and they've little want but to drown themselves in cheap whiskey and cheaper tap brew. The pool tables are all occupied, as is most of the rest of seating. Notable amongst the patrons are a knot of sweaty, coverall-wearing metalworkers, a cluster of off-duty taxi drivers, and a handful of bored barflies waiting for things to really kick off.

Right now Jack is standing between two of the pool tables and jabbing his finger into the chest of a taxi driver who's considerably bulkier than he is. He frowns, and his white t-shirt strains against his shoulders as he jabs the man again, punctuating his point. "I don't give a shit if you got here first. You can wait for the other guys to take a shot sometimes, too."

The driver glares back, unimpressed. He lifts his cue and holds it across his chest with both hands flexing around the shaft. "I am holding stick. You vant I should break you, tiny man?" As he speaks he wobbles a bit, then straightens and squares his own shoulders. "Or maybe I break tiny girly hands you use for poking."

His friends all think this is hilarious. They guffaw, slap each other on the back, and in general only add to Jack's frustration. Meanwhile, the metalworkers at the next table are spectacularly unamused. They're the ones who lodged the complaint, after all, and they come here all the time.

Not far away, Trina picks up the tray of empty beer glasses and bottles that she's just finished loading up. She flashes a smile at the better behaved men who are sitting at the table and then settles the tray on the hip left bare by low-cut capri pants riding low and her thin, white splattered black tee riding up.
As voices start to rise, her dark head turns and an eyebrow arches. The frown on her face clearly displays her displeasure. Stupid people coming in here and causing trouble. Well, she decides, at least Jack's taking care of it. As she moves across the room amidst bodies, hoever, her gaze only partly watches where she's going. The rest of her attention is mercilessly devoured by the confrontation. To a party in the corner desperately trying to get her attention, they get a pointer finger stuck in the air. One second.

"Girly hands?" What started as a disagreement over logistics has just become personal. You don't screw with a magician's hands. "I have beautiful hands, you dick. Just ask your mother, she loves what they can-" Jack's taunt is cut off when the driver flicks one end of the stick up to strike him across the jaw. It's little more than a tap, but the larger man looks very pleased with himself, and he turns to accept congratulations from the rest of his drunken cohorts.

For his part, Jack clenches his teeth together and lets out a hiss of air between them. His chin smarts, but it's his pride that hurts more than anything. Without a word, he picks up a half-empty pitcher of beer from the next table over and brings it crashing down on the back of the man's head, driving him to his knees and sending Coors Light flying everywhere.

There's almost two full seconds where the entire bar goes silent. Then, as one, the taxi drivers and the metalworkers rush each other, swinging sticks, throwing balls, and lashing out with pudgy fists.

"Fuck." Trina's eloquent and descriptive assessment of the situation is immediately loosed into the air as she slams down the tray. Particularly as it's her darling Jack that just got himself hit with a pool cue. It's an assessment that is fired off again in rapid succession as she gets out from behind the bar. "HEY! KNOCK IT OFF!" But there is a distinct advantage to working here as opposed to Della Rosa. It means that when she takes off towards the brawl at full tilt, there's no second thought. As soon as she draws close enough, she grabs hold of a chair and just takes to swinging it in the direction of one of the brawler's back. "I SAID…" Cue the dull thud of a chair hitting against the broadside of a man's back. "KNOCK IT OFF."
WHAM! Chair-hit, the man goes down in a heap. More and more patrons are being drawn into the scuffle wether they like it or not. One is the chair-hit man's date. Despite her petite, pretty blondness, her narrowed eyes and fingers hooked to claws are clear signs that she's ready to knockaround. Approaching from the side, she pulls a classic move. She wraps a hand around Trina's hair and yanks.

Meanwhile, Jack has got his hands full. The metalworkers are helping him with the angry, mostly foreign drivers, but there are teeth and bits of pool cue everywhere. Someone slips on the eight ball and hits his face on the edge of a table, instant KO. Far too slight to mix it up directly, Jack is darting in and out of the conflict, lashing out indiscriminately with half of a stick he's scavenged from somewhere. Blood leaks from a cut at the corner of his mouth, but he's smiling. He's bleeding, and fighting, and people are busting up his bar. And he's smiling.

No one ever said Jack was entirely sane.

Trina meanwhile has her high heel in chair-hit man's lower back when she's curled backwards as someone grabs hold of her hair. "Oh, you fucking *pussy*," she screams, even as she twists to the side in order to get her hands on the bitca who happens to have the deathgrip on her hair. "LEGGO." There's a vicious snarl that curls the dark-haired woman's lips as Trina's leg snakes around to get behind the other woman's knee, pulling it forward. Anything to set the dirty hair-puller off-balance. Nevermind the fact that Trina's just got her hand on the nine-ball rack that was underneath the table. Or… maybe you shouldn't.

Though there are more taxi drivers than metalworkers, the latter team is working alongside Jack. These are regulars, good old boys who've seen their share of fights both inside and outside this pub. Nothing to worry about, right?

Wrong. Jack is seperated from his friends at this point, and he's surrounded by people who are angry and don't speak English. With two fast swipes of his improvised club, he levels one of his attackers before the other two close in. Then he flings the weapon across the room. It flies end over end several times before it hits one of the barflies in the side of the head and coldcocks her. She crumples to the floor a few feet behind Trina, still holding an empty beer mug in her red-enameled grip. The dirty hair-puller seems a little less ferocious now that she's faced with a woman who can handle herself. Off balanced, she clings to the table to keep from falling with her other hand still wound in Trina's hair.

When Jack goes down under two angry men, there's not much he can do but spit blood and swear. He's not out of the fight yet, though. With a man kneeling on his shoulders and about to pound him in the face, there's only one option. A shitty one. Jack leans up and bites him in the crotch. The results are predictable, and the odds are suddenly even again.

"Gawd fucking dammit," Trina replies as she finally gets the rack up and pounded into the blonde's face properly. There's blood and scratches and Trina's scalp's bleedin' too, but there's a pleased smile briefly visible as both blondie and crazy beer glass girl go down. But then she sees man number two heading towards Jack after her poor man has to pull his dirty little maneuvre. Brain shuts down, dangerous things happen. Namely, icy blue eyes narrow and Trina goes back to running, intending to throw herself on the man's back in order get her thumbs in some unpleasant head holes.
She never gets there, a downed hand finding its way around her ankle and pulling it sideways. Atop three and a half inch heels, that's more than sufficient to compromise nearly anyone's balance and it makes the muscles decidedly unhappy. It's a graceful fall — or, at least, as graceful as one can fall in heels — followed by a sharp kick backwards with the other heel towards the man's face with a stream of profanities.

After shoving his shrieking opponent off of himself, Jack climbs back to his feet. Unfortunately, he's not fast enough to keep from getting nailed by two darts thrown by one of the still-standing barflies. Roaring with pain and anger, Jack plucks the missles out of his shoulder and tosses them to the floor. "THAT'S ENOUGH!" No longer content to dodge around the sidelines, Jack grabs one man by the hair and pulls his head back, exposing his throat to an open-handed strike. Another who's half-risen to his feet is kicked neatly between the eyes.

He moves systematically across the room, gathering his regulars into a ragtag army that steamrolls over the remaining instigators. Jack is still busy looking for the fucker who threw the darts (he doesn't know it was a girl), but one of the metalworkers offers Trina a tired smile and a hand up after she jabs her heel into somebody's cheek.

As Trina gets help up, she can't help but smile. Awww. They care. Being Jack's girl has distinct advantages. Gladly she takes the hand, favoring her left ankle slightly as she gets her foot placed back inside the peek-toe shoe properly. It's rolled, and it's making her angry because now she's stuck in 'em for the rest of the night. But that smile is maintained as she kisses her fingertips and then places those fingers to the man's worn, stubbled cheek. "Thank you." See? She can still remember her manners. It's more than can be said for a bunch of the others.
After she runs her hand through her hair to return it to some semblance of order, her dark-lined eyes search about for the bar's owner and defending captain. Even her proud panty chain hangs dejectedly from one side, blowing gently in the breeze from the air conditioning unit above it. When Trina doesn't see Jack immediately in the chaos that is overturned tables and broken glass, she forgoes her more common professional distance in order to use words more comforting to form. "Baby?"

The man who helped Trina up smiles and blushes, choosing to nod instead of responding. Then he turns to rejoin the cleaup crew. The last taxi driver standing is a stubborn sonofabitch. Rather than give in when outnumbered six-to-one, he sends an unopened Rolling Rock winging toward Jack with a vicious sidelong pitch at the same moment he turns to look at Trina. Caught in the side of the head, he goes down hard, unconcious before he hits the floor. One of his comrades picks the driver up by the shoulders and slams him against the wall, then tosses him negligently aside.

Now that it's quiet, everyone who didn't bolt at the first sign of trouble is either leaving or being drug out by a friend who's still standing. Even the regulars who were helping out moments ago are quickly vanishing. Nobody wants to be here if the fuzz shows up.

"FUCK." An almost cartoonish, halted stream of cursing escapes out of the brunette's mouth as she carefully picks her way over to where Jack fell with a subtle limp. "And don't come back," she mutters at the people who are fleeing. Then a thought. "…unless you can pay and behave." This won't be one of Jack's prettier nights, and that's before one even considers the fact that the bar's owner is in a heap on the floor atop a pile of broken bits of glass. She's gonna be beating herself up over this one for a good long time. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Once she reaches his side, she dusts off the ground beside him and then lowers herself down onto her knees and moves to roll him over with only a brief glance over her shoulder at the exodus flood. She hesitates, drawing back once as is afraid to break him. Then finally, she grabs his shoulder and tries to gently maneuvre his head onto her lap so she can stroke at his face tenderly. Concern and worry paints her face in hues of crease and furrow, the frown impossible to miss. "C'mon, baby. Gotta wake up. Can't sleep here."

Jack's already stirring by the time Trina reaches his side. The cut at the corner of his mouth is still bleeding, the side of his head bears a lump, and one of his eyes is looking a bit puffy. When he sits up in Trina's lap, he gasps in a breath and looks her in the eye. "You ok?"

"I'm fine. Nothin' a hot shower and a couple days won't cure." Yanking a handkerchief out of her back pocket, Trina moves to wipe some of the blood from Jack's face. Hers is all in her hair and there ain't no hope for that until she can wash it out. She pastes on a comforting smile, even as she bends over to plant a kiss on his forehead. It's to bolster him as she starts looking at cuts and splits to make sure there isn't anything that needs a doctor. "You, my dear, look like hell."

Jack works his jaw from side to side, then winces and sags back into Trina's lap. He closes his eyes and allows himself to be mopped off. After a moment he takes the kerchief and presses it to a cut above his brow. From his half-sitting position, he shakes a bit of loose glass from one shoulder and surveys the interior of the pub with unfocused eyes. "Hell," he agrees. "Shit. What a mess."

That response elicits a single chuckle from Trina, even as she moves an arm around his back. "You ain't kiddin'. I say we hire a couple of bums, give 'em a bottle of that nasty ass rail whiskey, and make *them* sweep up. I bet there have to be two sane ones *somewhere*." After a wistful look to the front door — where are fairy godmothers when you need them most? — Trina turns her attention back to Jack. Her blue eyes study him carefully, although even she'd confess to not being how much good it does. "Are you gonna be alright, darlin', or do I need to get Julia's keys and take you up to the ER? 'Cuz you ain't allowed to scare me with stuff I can't fix."

Jack's response is to shake himself the rest of the way off and climb back to his feet. He sways a bit, then steadies. "I'm fine," he replies. "Pissed, mostly. Let's lock up and get the hell out of here. We can deal with this shit tommorrow. Right now I want to stretch out on my couch with a whiskey in one hand and a pretty girl in the other." With a ghost of his usual crooked smile, he reaches out and gives Trina's hand a squeeze. "And you.. I saw you. You're pretty hot when you're defending our pub."

Trina rises with Jack, and, at his sway, her hand flies out to help catch him if he starts to fall. That squeeze isn't lost on her hand, and she is soothed. "Your pub," she quietly corrects. "It's *your* pub. I just work here." There's an unmistakable blush to her cheeks, however, at the compliment. "And I ain't nearly as impressive as you, Mister I'm-Gonna-Take-All-These-Fuckers-On-At-Once." Her smile grows at that, and with it her confidence and volume. "Y'give a girl somethin' to aspire to."

"My pub." Jack still looks a little foggy, so it's anybody's guess if he's agreeing with Trina or just echoing her. He shakes his head, then winces. "Oooh. Feels like midgets are dancing to techno in my head. You don't want to aspire to this, trust me." With a weary grin, he loops an arm around Trina's shoulders. "Let's get outta here."

"Alright." Then a slender hand is just out in Jack's direction, even as the shorter woman slides her arm around his waist to help keep him tightly to her side. Granted, if he goes down, she's likely going with him. However, she will be right there for the minor course corrections that might prevent such a catastrophe. "Keys. Then we'll work on evicting the midgets." Midgets hate mooshiness.

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