There’s three of them and the perfect
opportunity already. I take up my seat, order a pitcher of wet.
“Captain Flycatcher,” I state. “Here
to welcome you all.”
“To what?” one of them hogs.
“To the legend,” I answer.
They’re Grinthems. Planet Grintha
natives. Green-skinned with large ears and bulging eyes. Their fists
have claws which can extend to become deadly – though in modern
Grinthem culture it is something of a faux
pas to use these claws in
battle. It shows weakness, an unfair advantage.
The fattest of the three gets down from
his stall. He’s short but stocky. They all are and I’m
disappointed.
“To the legend,” I slur, raising my
glass at them. I swivel, challenging them to meet my toast. “You’re
lucky it’s my day off,” I say. “Or it could be an early night
for you all.”
The fat one who’s standing, he squares
up to me, butting his shoulder against my side. Part of my drink
spills on my lap and I have an idea.
“An early night, you say?” he’s
sneering.
“To your good self,” I reply,
feigning drunkenness. I raise the drink at his ugly face, knocking it
against his flat nose and the contents spill down his front.
His two friends stand.
“Well look what you’ve done now, Mr
…”
“Captain,” I correct, swinging about
on my stall. “Captain
Flycatcher.”
“You seem very sure of yourself,
Captain
Flycatcher,” says another of them, emphasising the ‘captain’
part with a sarcastic twang. “Seems to me you’d be better off
offering my friend here an apology.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I slur. “It
is you three who should be thanking I.”
I let that one hang until one of them
finally answers. Here in the bar the only sound is now from their
grunts.
“Thanking us?” one of them relents.
“For not taking you out where you
stand,” I reply. “I am, after all, trained in sixty-eight forms
of martial art.”
“Sixty …”
“Unlike the three of you,” I
continue. “I hear on Grintha it’s all hugs and growling. That is,
when you’re not using your claws. Rather dull if you ask me.
Neanderthal,” I laugh.
“Neander –
“Backward, my good sir. Simple. You
wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“He’s mocking us,” says one of
them.
“You want to try me?”
says the fatter one. He moves forward to grab me by the scruff of my
suit.
Lifting me, he proceeds in hurling my
body across the bar where I land with a crash against a stack of
bottles that clatter with me to the floor.
“Well,” I say, now standing from the
mess. “Looks to me like you fellows need to be taught a lesson in
manners.”
I apologise to the barman who is very
much now next to me.
“We don’t want any trouble here,”
he’s saying. “This establishment is a peaceful one.”
He’s roughly dressed and of geriatric
age. I pat him on the shoulder, brush myself down and smile.
“No need to worry,” I say. “Got it
all under control.”
“I’d say he has,” says one of the
Grinthems, and they each begin to laugh.
“Take the damages out of their
credit,” I grin, patting the barman on the back. Then I launch
myself up and over the bar again, lunging at the nearest Grinthem
with a flat palm swipe.
He falls to the floor, dumbstruck.
“I’d say you asked for that,” I
scold, then smile towards the remaining two.
They look down at their companion. He’s
not out, not yet. Instead, slowly, he’s getting to his feet
awkwardly.
“Back for more?” I say, putting out
my fists. I move two
steps forward, then back. Then the three of them are suddenly running
at me.
I kick at the one on the left; the
fastest and lightest and he’s spun and over a table. In the same
move, with my left fist I’ve done a ‘duck and under’ at the
next. He’s stopped in his tracks and looks perplexed at where I got
the strength from.
While dodging the third Grinthem’s
run, I spin and hit him again, watch him slowly fall to the floor.
“You Quelga!” the third one says.
“Now, now, no need for that kind of
language.”
This Grinthem whose run I avoided is the
one who I hit first. Standing before me, he’s snorting heavily,
full of spite. “I’ll kill you …”
“Now, now …”
But his claws are now unleashed.
“I’ll murder you …”
“Now hold on,” I try. “Wait a
second here …”
“What d’ya say?” he asks the
others who have each now risen to their feet once more. “Last night
on the station? What difference would one more kill make?”
“Now wait here a minute. I was only …
only playing here.”
But all three of them now have their
claws out.
“You’ve no idea who we are, do you?”
says tallest and thinnest of the three. Their eyes are filled with
venom. On their belts I take in the clubs.
Grintha, Grintha,
I think. Those clubs, they mean something.
“Afraid I don’t,” I relent, which
by the look of their expressions could well have been the wrong
answer.
On their right breasts are the crests of
the Grinthem monarchy. A slug-like creature split into two over a red
moon.
“I’m … how about a round of drinks
here?” I say to the barman who’s standing there watching us.
Whatever it is I’ve missed here, it’s hard to guess whether he
knows, but he knows I’ve missed something. Hell, they all do.
I look around the rest of the bar. Count
twenty pairs of eyes, watching us sullenly. Three humans, two
together and one by herself at the back. The two are young men like
me. Officers. They’ll be of no help.
“Would Captain
Flycatcher prefer to be slashed or ripped?”
There’s four Capulka, and with their
tentacles I’m sure they could hold off these Grinthem for long
enough for me to get away.
“Hey, guys,” I try. “A little help
here?”
The three Grintha begin to snort and
bellow in laughter.
“Seems Captain
Flycatcher has a lot of friends today …”
Two Falunas covering in the corner. A
couple of droids and then the woman again. She’s coming this way.
She’s holding …
“Problem?” she asks. In her left
hand is a large motor-shooter.
The three Grinthems turn.
“Well look what we have here?” one
of them sneers.
“I’d say we have three dead spies,”
says the woman. “You want to keep up the act with him, then fine.
But my ex-husband was a Grinthem, and I must say, I’m insulted.”
She points the end of the motor-shooter at their claws. “A royal
guard would never need to be reduced to such barbarianism. You even
know how to use those sticks?”
“So maybe we kill you too,” says the
fatter Grinthem to her. “You
accuse us of not being who we are. If you were married to a Grinthem,
you should know,” he coughs,
“that such an insult cannot go dismissed.”
“You calling me a liar?” she spits.
Each of them is now taking out their
club.
Royal guard,
I’m thinking. But I’ve got nothing – this woman’s knowledge
of Grinthemian culture is obviously far greater than mine.
They’re advancing at her and she’ll
either shoot them dead or suffer that consequence herself.
“Now wait a second here,” I try. “No
need for any more trouble.” I offer my apologies, doing a little
bow. “Should have recognised three Grinthems of status when I saw
them …”
The Grinthems stop: three ugly heads
turn back at me. The word ‘status’ is rather generic; though I
know they must have some kind of position, even if only Hades knows
what it is.
“Need your girlfriend here for
rescue?” asks the shorter one.
“Yes, yes I do,” I relent. I’m a
good actor, always have been. It’s got me out of a lot of scrapes.
Knowing when to quit, knowing when not to.
“It’s fine,” I say to the girl.
She’s pretty but I’ve hardly had time to acknowledge that yet.
“My friends and I, we were just playing,” I tell her. It’s a
risk but better than getting anyone killed. I stumble over to the
three Grinthems, arms out and full of warmth. “My friends,” I
slur, then pull them into a rather clumsy embrace. For the bystanders
watching, it must be the strangest sight they’ve ever seen.
Think of it in slow-motion. Three ugly
expressions of confusion, then disgust. They rip away, then push at
me and I let them. Then they’ve lifted me up and thrown me at the
bar again.
Once more I fly, at the stack of bottles
the barman has just reassembled. Again I crash to the floor.
Though this time I’m playing a
different character.
“My sincerest apologies to you all,”
I sing with the same piteous performance of a bow. “And a round of
drinks for everyone.”
I gesture to the crowd, my audience of
yellow studs.
