Scene: Fight Me!
A continuation of the drunken nonsense found HERE!
Content Warning for: physical violence, physical harm, swearing, police on police violence, under the influence behavior, mention of guns, and low-detail vomiting.
“You know damn well I never had a mother, you vile bastard!”
“Like that makes you special,” Daniel Morrin scoffed into his pint glass, which was mostly empty. “Neither did I, you fuckin’ idiot.”
And that was how it started.
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. Morrin visibly swayed and stumbled to the side, hand going to his face while his nose became a fountain of blood. Collective breaths were held, as for a hot, tense second it appeared as if the large man would be making peace with the ground shortly.
“-’ou broke my ‘uckin’ nose!” Morrin exclaimed as he steadied and tossed his head up, blood running down around his mouth and his eyes open and wild. Meanwhile, Fitzgerald wasn’t giving him the time to bellyache about it. He had slipped around and behind the other man while he was reeling from the blow. He was presently wrapping his arms around Morrin’s neck.
Alistair blew out a cloud of smoke as Fitzgerald’s twiggy arms tightened around Morrin’s neck. As the man’s face somehow grew redder, but not more red than the blood on his skin, Alistair offered a light to Sinclair’s offering cigarette. Next to him, Miles winced visibly. Sinclair having inched his way around the outskirts of the scene to join him and Miles, Sawtelle was the only one standing on the other side of the brawling pair, scuffing his shoes in the dirt and looking somewhat like a kicked puppy.
Morrin gave as good as he got, jerking his head back into Fitzgerald’s face. He used the resulting slack his grip to tear out of Fitzgerald’s arms. He turned, nearly lost his balance, and descended on Fitzgerald.
Literally.
As a result of Morrin’s actions, he had stepped backward, into a slight dip in the ground, and fallen right over backward with a drunken yelp. Morrin was no more graceful as he fell heavily onto his knees above skinnier, paler Fitzgerald. They both looked foolish and flushed against the filthy dirt parking lot, at least to anybody who wasn’t taken up in the violence of it all.
As above it as Alistair was currently acting to be, at least in his own mind, he was kind of hoping Fitzgerald got the upper hand again. If he had to stand witness at all, the man he liked slightly more may as well win.
Morrin landed a punch on Fitzgerald, his fist huge in comparison to Fitzgerald’s head. His hands were nearly white against the night-darkened navy of Morrin’s uniform, the fabric gripped tightly between fingers like claws.
Fitzgerald jerked a leg far out to the side and grasped Morrin by the hair. The combination of both made Morrin’s balance impossible to keep, at least with the alcohol in his blood and on his disgusting breath. He toppled over into the dirt, sending plums up dust up around him.
Fitzgerald, now bleeding from a split lip and holding his face with one hand, rolled onto his knees with a groan of effort and pain. He knee-shuffled over to Morrin, planted his knees on either side of Morrin’s knees, and drove his fist into the other man’s gut as if he was slamming a mug onto a table.
Morrin made a noise somewhere between a guttural grunt and a breathless cry of pain. He scrabbled to prop himself up on one elbow, turned his head, and yakked up his last three beers and a sizeable dinner. He held up his other hand, as if that alone would stop further onslaught from his opponent.
Above him, Conrad Fitzgerald straightened and watched on, deadeyed. His hair was more roused than usual, his shirt was unbuttoned, and his cheek was beginning to bruise. Panting, he spat out, “Done?” And licked his lip.
A long moment later, after Daniel Morrin was finished redecorating that particular patch of dirt with a sprinkling of gravel, complete with a clearing of the throat and a spitting of vile mouth contents, he responded, “Done.”
With that, Fitzgerald unsteadily pushed his lanky self back to his feet. With a gait somewhere between victorious swagger and drunken sway, he went back into the bar to finish his last drink.
