The two men were huddled around Bulldog, making enjoyable noises as they watched my wife dance on Bulldog’s phone.
I took some cash from my jacket, around four thousand dollars, and threw it on the bar.
“What’s this?” the old bartender asked, holding up the money.
“Incidentals,” I said.
The three men all stood when I approached. Bulldog stood in the center; the other two flanked him.
“Tell me how much for the phone,” I said.
“Who says it’s for sale?” Bulldog shot back.
I rolled my shoulders, once. “Me.”
“Me.” Bulldog turned to his left, a look of incredulous shock on his ruddy face. “Can you believe this asshole?”
“Once more. The phone. Or I’ll take it and it’s mine regardless. Your choice.”
“No deal, Italian model-o,” Bulldog said, and the two on either side seemed to stand even taller. “It’s my phone, and the video ofyourgirl ismyproperty.”
I was too quick. The phone flew through the air with a simple knock out of Bulldog’s hand. Maggie Beautiful skittered over, snatching up the phone before the three of them registered what had just happened. You could take the girl out of the bar, but not the bar out of the girl. She knew the drill.
“Motherfucker!”
The three of them charged me. The two brawny guys each took an arm, while Bulldog punched me in the gut.
I laughed. His punches were a joke. I didn’t even feel them. All of the pent-up rage that had been creeping toward the surface surged through my arms and flew out of my hands. The two brawny men couldn’t hold me any longer and I broke free.
One of them attempted to get my hands behind my back. My skull connecting with his nose quickly remedied this. The smash and crunch of it rang through my head.
Bulldog took a dive to the other side of the bar a second later. He connected with the numerous bottles and the mirrored lining, and then he was off my radar.
That left the remaining brawny and me. We circled each other for a second before he charged me, head down, and my back connected with the hard edge of the wooden bar. He tore down and we both went to the floor. My size belied how quick I was.
Up and over him in a second, I summoned him off the floor with my hand. Once he stood toe to toe with me again, he staggered and raised his fists.
I was stronger, I was angrier, and my fists flew in a manic rage. My wife could control each graceful limb she was blessed with—and I could control mine. Each blow connected with the spot aimed for.
It took seven cops who had come into the bar for a drink after work to subdue me. The only reason I relented was because one of their voices broke through the rage:You’re a powerful motherfucker. Don’t make us do something we’ll regret in front of your mother and wife.
I heard the lingering music in the background, the bartender explaining to the cops that the three punks had started it, but I had finished it. Over all of the chaotic sounds, my wife’s screams rose the highest.
She never liked it when other people put their hands on me.
The cops had me on my knees, hands behind my head.
“Weapons?”
“Knife. Right leg.”
Another cop came to stand in front of me, looking down. “Your wife. She’s a famous dancer? The ballerina?”
“Yeah,” I said, swaying some. Adrenaline pulsed in my veins, and the hard urge to continue to swing felt trapped. The pent-up rage made me tremble in consequence.
“Talk to her,” the cop said. “Tell her to calm down.”
“From experience,” I said, “it’s not going to work.”
