Foreign and Domestic

by Scott Blade

  “Nah. Just two waters. And a menu.”

  Cameron glanced back at Li. He wasn’t sure how many songs she could play with five dollars, but he figured it was at least five. One came up. A hip hop song Cameron didn’t recognize. Something with a female voice and a decent beat.

  Li started to move her hips from side to side. She had hips meant for dancing, that was for damn sure!

  Cameron liked her. He liked her a lot.

  He thought that since she had at least four more songs to pick and was moving very slowly through the list, it might be a good time for him to go to the men’s room and get rid of some of the beer he had drank.

  He stood up and walked to the back of the bar. He found the restroom and went in.

  It was a dark room with green everything except for the urinals and the toilet. They weren’t quite white but close to it.

  Cameron hurried and then washed his hands after. No paper towels. Not a surprise. He shook his hands and came back out of the bathroom.

  In life, things can change fast, and in Cameron’s case, life was no different. He was subject to the same rules as the rest of society. The dynamics of the bar had changed.

  Li was still at the jukebox. The bartender was still behind the bar, and the other patrons still occupied the same places they had been except for five of them. The college boys were not where they had started. Instead, they were all around Li at the jukebox. Some of them drunk. One of them very drunk. And all of them buzzed.

  One guy was short and stocky. He had tattooed sleeves on his two exposed arms. Probably thought they made him look tough. Another guy wore glasses with steel frames and a red T-shirt with some sort of comic book logo on it. Two of the guys were tall, as tall as Cameron maybe. They had arms like bridge supports and hands as thick as railroad spikes. They both wore generic sports hats turned at the front so that the bills looked slightly off. No tattoos on these two.

  Then there was one more guy, presumably the ringleader. He was big—not as big as the other two guys, but still big. Maybe six foot two inches tall. Maybe two hundred and fifty pounds. Maybe more. All five guys were musclebound except for the one in glasses. The one in glasses was the drunkest. He had his hand propped up on a table chair to keep himself balanced.

  The ringleader also had an arm tattoo, like his friend, but this tattoo was different. It meant something.

  Cameron had seen tattoos all his life. Many of his friends had them. Many of the people he had encountered on the road, in the cities, and in the rural towns had them. Cameron liked tattoos. Sometimes they could be done to excess, but sometimes they were appealing. He especially liked them on women. Nothing wrong with them in his opinion. Nothing at all. For the most part.

  But this particular tattoo was the second mistake the ringleader had made.

  The first was that he had his hands down low, thumbs out, while he groped Li’s ass.

  She was pressed up against the jukebox, face against the machine, trying to maneuver out of his grip. But the short, sleeve-tattooed guy had her pinned from the side while the ringleader held her ass with his hands and whispered something in her ear that Cameron couldn’t hear.

  The two big guys stood behind him in no sort of line, but they looked like they were waiting for their turn to grope Li.

  Cameron felt his blood boil, and his vision became a little fuzzy. No one knew why, but this was something that happened in all animals. Rage set in, and the body reacted in several ways. One being that the eyes flared and vision turned into a kind of tunnel vision like a reticule on a sniper scope. And at that moment, for Cameron, the ringleader was inside that reticule.

  The second mistake the ringleader had made was getting the tattoo that was clearly visible on his right bicep. It was a screaming eagle, big and bold, painted in vivid colors with the United States flag garlanded behind it and four black letters stenciled on his skin in bold lettering—USMC.

  United States Marine Corps.

  Cameron guessed there was no way this guy was a Marine. Not a chance in hell. He was as young as Cameron, which wasn’t proof in and of itself, but his behavior was a good indicator. Not that Marines were always on their best behavior, especially when drinking in a bar, but Marines were full of honor. It was a big deal to them, and Cameron knew that. This guy’s actions were far from honorable.

  But the biggest indicator that the guy was no Marine was that Marines generally only hung out with other Marines, and his friends were no jarheads. No way. If they were, they wouldn’t let their buddy step out of line. Not to a civilian and not this far.

  And of course, there were the two big guys. They were college football players. No question. All four of the stronger guys were probably college football players. Same team. Same school.

  Cameron looked at the far side of the bar and saw no action from the bartender. No one at the bar was paying any attention what was happening on this side. Cameron looked at the two girls who were with the five guys. They stayed near the pool table, holding the pool sticks.

  Cameron’s eyes locked with the guy in glasses.

  The guy in glasses started to point at Cameron.

  Now was the time to act, before the drunk guy with glasses warned his friends and gave away the element of surprise. Cameron was tough—he’d been fighting since he was five years old. He’d gotten into a lot of brawls in high school, but high school brawls weren’t like real life brawls. Most of the time, high school fights could be deescalated by talking, by showing the other guy you meant business. Real world brawls weren’t quite like that. In the last year, he’d had his fair share of fights—he seemed to be a kind of magnet for trouble—but Cameron had always come out ahead because of one principle his mother taught him. Win no matter what.

  She had said, “The best fight is one you don’t have. But the second best is the one you win.”

  Cameron knew he had developed skills from his youth and had the advantage of genetics on his side. He was a born fighter and a taught gentleman. His mother had had to beat manners into him. But some situations didn’t call for a gentleman. Some situations didn’t call for honor or truth or principles or playing by the rules. A gentleman plays by the rules, and that’s why graveyards were full of gentlemen. Luckily, Cameron was no gentleman.

  He crouched down and walked over along the wall, weaving through a couple of the tables.

  The drunk guy in the glasses saw him plain as day The guy stood and reached over to grab the arm of his friend, the first big guy.

  He almost got his fingers on the guy’s arm before Cameron stood up straight and lifted the table in front of him and charged with it outstretched like a battering ram. Drinks and beer bottles flew through the air, and glass broke and liquids merged onto the floor.

  Cameron released his grip on the table and hurled it at the two guys. The drunk guy flew back onto the ground and started screaming in drunken agony. He held his right hand out over his chest. The fingers were smashed and broken from his fall. His index finger was bent outward and mangled. The other four were even worse.

  The one big guy had fallen on his back under the weight of the table, but he flung the table off of his chest and bounced back up. His hair and face were covered in beer and liquor.

  The other three guys turned, wide-eyed, and stared.

  Cameron said, “Guys. Your friend looks hurt.”

  “You broke my fingers, man!” the guy screamed from the floor.

  The two big guys started to move in closer to Cameron, not within reaching distance but close enough to rush him. Cameron stood his ground. His hands fell down by his sides. Relaxed. Nonthreatening.

  He said, “Now guys, I’m guessing you play for a football team.”

  The big guy who was dry said, “No shit!”

  Cameron stayed quiet.

  The ringleader walked out in front of the two big guys, and the short guy with the sleeve tattoo stood in the foreground. Cameron could see that their natural strategy was to circle around him, which was a
common group mentality, but Cameron had made sure that this wasn’t possible for them. The table he had thrown blocked up the right side to the wall, and there were tables standing to the left. Unless these guys started heaving tables out of their way, they were stuck coming at him head on.

  Cameron stayed focused on his opponents, but he liked to be aware of his surroundings completely. So he took one quick glance at the bartender and other customers. They remained where they were—frozen like they stared at a train wreck. Everyone knew that they should dial nine-one-one, but in this world: most people assumed that someone else was doing it.

  They all watched in silence.

  The ringleader said, “Hey, friend! What the hell is wrong with you? That’s my little brother.”

  Cameron said, “And that’s my lady you’re feeling up, friend!”

  Li started to scoot away from the jukebox. She stayed as quiet as she could and moved back to the left rear wall.

  The short guy with the sleeve tattoo turned and ran at her. He grabbed her by the arm.

  Li said, “Let go of me!”

  The guy jerked her arm and pulled her out toward the rear of the group.

  Cameron stayed quiet.

  The ringleader stepped back and grabbed her by the other arm. He said, “This your woman?”

  Cameron stayed quiet still, feet planted firmly, hands still down by his side.

  The two girls from the pool table moved a little closer.

  One of them said, “Come on, Chad. Let that slut go. We’re trying to have a good time.”

  The ringleader didn’t look back but said, “Shut up, Holly! No one’s talking to you!”

  Holly backed off, rolling her eyes.

  Cameron said, “Chad. What’s your last name, Chad?”

  The closest big guy said, “Cooper.” He looked at Cameron like the name was supposed to mean something.

  Cameron shrugged, still maintaining his non-threatening stance, and asked, “Am I supposed to know that name?”

  The second big guy said, “He’s the quarterback for the Hoyas!”

  “As in the Georgetown Hoyas!” the short guy in the back said.

  Cameron shrugged again. “No wonder I never heard of you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, bro?” Chad asked.

  Cameron said, “I only follow the good teams—not the shit ones!”

  Cameron had no idea if the Hoyas were good or not. He didn’t follow college football. He was more an NFL type of guy. He believed in watching the big leagues, not the next rung down.

  Chad said, “We’re the only team that matters! You better watch your mouth, bro, or you aren’t going to like what happens.”

  Cameron paused a beat and then said, “So here’s the play, fellas.” He moved his eyes to the two big guys and said, “You two can walk away with your legs still working. But leave your two friends behind.”

  The two big guys looked at each other and back at Cameron.

  Chad asked, “What? You’re going to let them go and then what? Kick our asses?” He nodded toward the guy with the sleeve tattoo.

  Cameron said, “The two of you aren’t getting out of here on your own. The two of you have laid your hands on my friend there. And for that, you’ll have to be carried out on stretchers.”

  Chad looked at his friend. Normally, he’d laugh, but something in Cameron’s face made it a deadly serious prediction, and he knew it.

  Cameron said, “And for you, Chad, the paramedics will need an ice chest.”

  “What’s that going to be for, bro?”

  Cameron didn’t answer but instead asked, “By the way, which hand do you use to throw the football?”

  “Why the hell does that matter?”

  “Because that’s what the ice chest is for. Your fingers. After I’m done breaking the bones in your hand, it’s likely some of your fingers might come off. In that case, I’d hate for you to never have them back.”

  The big guy on the left said, “What the hell, bro?” Then he looked at his friend, who stared back.

  Cameron lunged in—fast.

  Jerked his right arm back. His left tucked in. He shot down and sprang up in a sharp, violent arc. Full force. His right arm pulled all the way back and then shot straight out. A huge fist like a hammer jammed straight into one big guy’s neck, a brutal blow that almost shattered the guy’s voice box. He would’ve screamed out in pain if he could have. Instead, he fell over like a puppet with its strings cut. Just a fast fall straight to the ground like gravity had reached up and ripped him off of his feet.

  The second big guy didn’t skip a beat. He came in at Cameron with a right jab. Cameron danced back and felt the wind from it rush by his chest.

  He grabbed a wooden chair that was left from the thrown table and twisted at the waist and slammed it into the guy’s exposed lower ribcage. He looked like an Olympic discus thrower except far less graceful. Cameron wasn’t a graceful fighter. Far from it.

  If he had taken a moment to look at the expression on Li’s face, he would’ve seen that she was watching him in utter horror.

  The chair had shattered and splintered and broken across the guy’s ribs. Cameron heard the mixture of breaking wood and bone. He had broken more than a few ribs. No question. He knew it, and the guy definitely knew it because he fell over on top of his friend, just landed on the guy. Now there was a heap of maybe three hundred pounds of disabled football players piled on top each other like they’d been tackled in the middle of a game.

  Chad said, “What the hell? Bro! Those’re my friends!”

  Cameron moved toward him, slowly.

  Fear came across Chad’s face—that was obvious—but he didn’t back away like Cameron had expected him to. The other guy, however, looked at his two friends on the floor and let go of Li.

  She jerked away and ran to the bar.

  Cameron glanced over at her quickly then saw the rest of the patrons staring at him. The bartender was on the phone. Probably calling the police.

  Cameron looked back at the last two guys.

  He said, “Come on, Chad. What’re you waiting for?”

  Chad said, “Come on man. We were only messing with her.”

  “She’s not yours to mess with.”

  “We get it, man. She’s yours.”

  “She’s not mine, either, Chad. She’s a person. She belongs to herself.”

  The short guy with the sleeve tattoo started to crowd in a little too close for Cameron’s comfort. Cameron kept his eye on his position.

  Cameron said, “Chad, I made you a promise.”

  Then Cameron exploded into action a second time. He charged at the short guy. The guy jabbed with his left, which surprised Cameron a bit because he thought the guy was right-handed. It was a mistake on Cameron’s part, and the jab hit home right in his midsection. It hurt for an instant, but he had been hit before. His mind overrode his pain, and he whipped forward. Powered from the ground up. Toes to his knees. Then he snapped forward from the waist and hit the guy square in the face with a monumental head-butt. Not the hardest he’d ever delivered—he didn’t want to kill the guy—but powerful.

  There were two outcomes.

  One. The guy’s nose broke. Cameron heard it. Chad heard it.

  Two. The guy flew backward off of his feet, straight into the jukebox which wasn’t as sturdy as the manufacturer had intended. The guy’s mass broke through the glass center, and he landed in it. He remained stuck there, grabbing his broken nose. He didn’t scream like the big guy with the broken ribs. No, this guy wailed. But his cries were drowned out because the one thing the manufacturer did do right was make a jukebox that would still play music even after a broken football player was flung through it.

  And right there. Right then. Cameron saw something he had never seen before.

  Chad Cooper, the starting quarterback of a college football team, started crying. Like a baby. Tears rolled out of his eyes and down his face. His cheeks turned red, and his eyes glassed u
p.

  All his life, Cameron had gotten into fights defending the helpless, and in that time, he had seen all kinds of people from bullies to international criminals. But none of them had cried like this. Not a single one.

  Chad started begging. He said, “I’m sorry.” Over and over.

  Cameron approached, and Chad backed away and continued to plead.

  Cameron said, “Are you sorry?”

  Chad said, “Yeah, bro. I’m so sorry.”

  Cameron stayed quiet. Thought about what to do next.

  The guy was an idiot, but he wasn’t a murderer. A cheat, maybe. Perhaps a liar. But nothing that really deserved broken bones. Plus, he had backed down.

  Cameron grabbed him by his collar. Fast. Chad didn’t expect it and started shaking violently.

  “Ah, man. Come on, bro. Please don’t break off my fingers.”

  “Relax,” Cameron said and he half-dragged the guy across the bar, through the pile of his friends, and over to Li.

  He said, “Tell her.”

  “Tell…tell her what, bro?”

  “Tell her you’re sorry! Not me!”

  “I’m…sorry.”

  “Now tell her that you’re nothing but a piece of shit.”

  “I’m a piece of shit!”

  Cameron pulled him back from Li and spun him around and said, “You’re going to pay our tab. As a gesture of how remorseful you feel about what you did.”

  Chad nodded like he had never agreed with anything else more in his life, and the bartender acknowledged it with a nod.

  Cameron said, “And one more thing.”

  “Wh-what? Anything. You name it, and I’ll do it.”

  “Put your throwing hand across the bar.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Do it. Lay it nice and flat.”

  Chad shook even more than before, but he did as he was told.

  Cameron clenched his fist like a hammer and pulled it up over Chad’s fingers.

  Chad started to squirm. He shut his eyes tight.

  Cameron hovered his fist over Chad’s like he was going to hammer down and break it.

  He did it once. Twice.

  Li shook her head and mouthed, “Please don’t.”