Broken Highway: A Thomas Highway Story by Brian Springer Page A

show. The other two were right behind him.
    Although it was possible that things
wouldn’t get physical—doubtful, but still possible—I had to act as
though it would. So in the few seconds it took for the group to
reach me, I sized them up.
    The dude in front wore a Raiders hat with
the bill bent in an inverted V, white-trash style. He was tall and
thick but with eyes as dim-witted as a cow’s. Which was probably
his equal in intelligence. Even though he was obviously the leader
of this rag-tag group, he wouldn’t be a problem when push came to
shove.
    His partner was tall for a chick—5’10’’—but
thin as a rail. Flat face, like someone took a shovel to it when
she was a kid. She walked as though controlled by a puppeteer with
muscular dystrophy, her arms and legs moving out of time with each
other. A tweaker, no doubt, probably flying high on meth right this
moment. She also posed no threat.
    Contestant number 3 wore a shit-eating grin
on his chubby face. A thin line of tobacco juice ran down his
double chin, unnoticed. He was shaped like the Pillsbury Dough Boy,
nearly as round as he was tall. Someone you wouldn’t want sitting
on you, but other than that, I wasn’t concerned with him in the
least.
    Raider-Hat, Tweaker, and Dough Boy were
looking for trouble, that much was obvious. How much they would
find was up to them.
    From the corner of my eye I saw the
bartender sigh and reached under the bar for something. A weapon,
no doubt. He knew exactly where this was going. The rest of the
customers probably did too, but they just sat there and watched
silently.
    Raider-Hat stopped at the edge of my table.
He had a nasty grin on his face. The other two spread out alongside
him. Tweaker was twitching like she was hooked up to a car battery.
Dough-Boy was smiling stupidly.
    “What the fuck’s your problem?” Raider-Hat
said.
    Instead of answering him I tilted my head
back and finished off my glass of beer, knowing it was most likely
the last one I was going to get that night. In that particular bar,
at least.
    I set the beer down and sat there staring at
him but didn’t answer. Raider-Hat slammed his hand on the table. It
produced a loud bang but I didn’t so much as flinch.
    “I asked you a question, asshole.”
    “You mind repeating it?” I said. “I wasn’t
paying attention.”
    Dough Boy chimed in from the cheap seats.
“He asked you what the fuck your problem is.”
    “I don’t have one,” I replied, my eyes still
on Raider-Hat. He was the only semi-dangerous one, the one I’d have
to deal with first if things went bad.
    “Well, you’re about to,” Raider-Hat
said.
    “Is that right?”
    Raider-Hat nodded. “You’re damn right. My
woman here says you blew her a kiss.”
    “And what if I did?”
    “Then we’re gonna to have to fuck you up,”
Raider-Hat said.
    “And if I didn’t?”
    “We’re still gonna fuck you up,” Dough Boy
said, smiling stupidly.
    “And how do you plan on doing that?” I said,
still seated, not sweating them in the least. “After all, there’s
only three of you.”
    “But only one of you,” Tweaker said.
    I looked at her. “And you think that gives
you an advantage?”
    “You’re damn right it does,” Raider-Hat
said.
    “How so?” I said. “I mean, you don’t know
the first thing about me. I could be an MMA fighter, or a hardcore
martial artist, or even an ex-Navy SEAL for all you know.”
    “You ain’t none of those things,” Raider-Hat
said.
    “Oh yeah? What makes you so sure?”
    “Cuz you’re too damn scruffy. With that
long-hair and scraggly beard. You look like some kind of bum.”
    “You ever heard of not judging a book by its
cover?” I said.
    “We ain’t talking about no book,” Dough Boy
said, completely missing the point. Which came as no surprise.
“We’re talking about you.”
    “Besides,” Raider-Hat said. “If you were one
of those things you wouldn’t be drinking in this shithole.”
    “Oh, I don’t know about