New Storm Rising

08. An Explosive Entrance

"¡Hijo de la chingada!" The seething Spaniard raised a massive fist. "Say your last words, you pendejo!"

The man's fist came down.

"Any last takers?" I enquired, hopefully.

Unfortunately, the bet-hungry crowd didn't get a chance to answer before Mr Rikkard Ambrose's hand came up, slapping the man's punch away to the side and sending it crashing into the wooden bar.

"Aaarh! Ow!"

"If that was your attempt to make him say his last words, don't bother," I advised the big fellow kindly. "I've been trying to get him to say more for years. If he doesn't want to speak, he won't."

"¡Cállate, gilipollas!" He whirled around to glare at me. "Don't stick your nose in where it doesn't belong if you don't want me to break it!"

Uh-oh...

Behind him, I could see Mr Ambrose stiffen.

"That," I told the big man, "might not have been the smartest thing to say."

"What are you talking about, you bi—"

Wham!

I had often marvelled at how ravishingly rock-hard Mr Rikkard Ambrose's muscles were. Yet I had never considered one thing: if that was how his biceps felt, how hard exactly would his fists be?

Mr. Spanish Minion 01 seemed to have found the answer. Flying off his feet, he sailed backwards, over three chairs and a table, his teeth, liberated from his mouth, scattering in all directions. With a thunderous crash, the thug came down onto another table that broke beneath him, sending splinters everywhere.

A table that just so happened to have three men sitting around it. The desperado lookalikes did not look pleased.

"You...!" Bending down, a man as hairy as a grizzly bear grabbed the brute on the ground. Lifting him up in the air, he grabbed a nearby whiskey bottle. "Damn, stinking dago! I'm gonna go and shred ya!"

"Hola! Wait a moment! I—"

The bottle smashed over his head, sending shards of glass flying in all directions and the big Spaniard staggering back.

"Cabrón! What was that for? It was that pale-ass pendejo that 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.