#yelly bartender

Conrad Fitzgerald’s long face, already red from the alcohol, went even redder.  His shaggy, dirty blonde hair was pale against the flush of his skin.  He grabbed Morrin’s shirtfront in an angry fist and pulled the much taller, broader man toward him.  Nose to nose, eye to eye, Fitzgerald spat out, “We’ll see who’s an idiot after I’ve knocked those words outta your goddamn mouth.”

Morrin’s face split in a shit-eating grin.  “I’d like to see you try.”

Everybody around them groaned and the bartender slapped the counter between the two of them.  “Hey!  Take it outside, boys.  I wanna keep my paycheck.”  

Morrin downed the last of his drink and slammed his glass down hard enough to make dollar signs temporarily burn in the bartender’s eyes.  Alistair stood up from his seat on the other side of Miles from Fitzgerald, and the lot of them- him, Miles, Fitzgerald, Morrin, Sawtelle, and Sinclair- filed out of the bar.  Fitzgerald shoved Morrin out in front of him and half-stumbled, half-charged out into the night.  

This would almost certainly not fly if the Captain ever join them on their nights out, but as it was, Sawtelle didn’t quite have the gumption to keep fiery Fitzgerald and egotistical Morrin under wraps.  Each of them combative in their own right, and, under the influence of alcohol, likely to butt heads in a severe way.

As for Alistair, he had enough trouble on his hands without putting effort into stopping his stupid coworkers from beating the shit out of each other every time they had an argument and happened to be drunk at the same time.  Miles didn’t like it, he could tell, but he was much smaller than Morrin and Fitzgerald boxed on the weekends.  Sinclair had a sweet family man air about him most times, but now- now, with the booze running and the night air in his lungs, Alistair could see an excited gleam in the man’s eyes at the prospect of watching those two idiots fight it out in the bar parking lot.  

“GUNS,” Sawtelle hollered with a tired, “I can’t believe this is my life” undertone to his voice, and held out his worn hands before the two of them could properly square up.  Both men grumbled, messily fiddled with their holsters, and handed over their weapons.

Alistair stood back a good yard or so, and shifted his weight onto his good leg.  He lit a cigarette to keep him busy.  Miles sidled up besides him and crossed his arms over his chest, staring as Fitzgerald and Morrin squared up like they were his kids and he was personally responsible for this nonsense.  “Let it go,” he muttered through a mouthful of smoke.

Fitzgerald stood like a boxer, long legs bent, feet apart, fists up, leading with his left.  Morrin was loose through the shoulders and legs, head slightly cocked.  All six feet and seven inches, two hundred plus pounds of him taking up space in the night.  For a long second, all was still.  Sinclair stood with Sawtelle, across the way from Alistair and Miles.  Sawtelle had tucked their guns under his waistband, one on each side.  Alistair imagined Sinclair was holding his breath, waiting in anticipation for the action to begin.

Morrin made the first move, simply charging in and attempting to lift thinner, lighter, borderline skeletal Fitzgerald off his feet.

Fitzgerald ducked his arms, popped up to the right of him, and nailed him in the face with a solid left hook.