Ogreness, Black Lake-book5

Chapter 19

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Bikers are of a certain mentality. They live life a little harder than the average folk. Why else would they travel highway speeds with nothing between them and a painful, bloody death?

It’s good not to think those thoughts when ya’re burnin’ up the highway. But there can’t be one biker who hasn’t said to himself, I might as well have fun tonight, because I could be dead tomorrow.

And bikers love Lew’s.

It isn’t just an ogre thing.

So the music was already blarin’ and the challenges at the bar, not just from ogres, wore harsh. The neighborhood preacher would be expectin’ a fight any moment. But he should watch the faces. The droopy eyes more often than not indicate the spouter of ill feelings would prolly be hurlin’ over the porch rail before he’s dukin’ it out.

Our well-tipped bouncer dragged a table from the back for us, followed by four chairs. Our corner of the barroom immediately grew more intimate here on the ogre, mostly, side of the bar, with the new table gettin’ squished in the middle.

Nuel jerked a bit, nervous over the inebriated challenges to the status quo. Darshee and Wizper had been here often enough not to be bothered. So Nuel followed their lead and squirmed up tight to the table. More than a couple glances took in Sissy. She was busy visitin’, gettin’ snatches of treats. Lew’s is known for its heavenly-smoked jerky and pickled eggs. The latter maybe of lesser renown.

Needless to say we four ogres were devourin’ our staples long before our first pitcher and full pints of beer were delivered. More than one curious neighbor’s hand got slapped for bravin’ a peek into our baskets. We ogres aren’t keen about sharin’ food.

The classic rock on the juke box transitioned to a mellower blues set and I leaned back to grab a breath. I noted Nuel’s eyes turn a bit dreamy. Had she found a particularly tasty morsel, or did she like the music? Far from her pop she made me listen to for two hours. Near an eternity.

I raised our empty pitcher, and our server gave me a nod across the room.

“I may live,” Darshee muttered.

“Two more pitchers,” Wizper said. “I got a tad parched hikin’ those hills.”

Nuel set down her glass. “I expected ya two to be sliding through the Range’s twisty roads on two wheels.”

The two hens shared devious grins. Well of course, that would be on the agenda too.

“Only the first day,” I said. “Prolly spend a day fishin’ too.”

Darshee and Wizper peeled into coarse laughter. Yeah. They aren’t much for sittin’-around-sports. Maybe that’s why I love ’em so much.

“May do some elk wrestlin’,” Darshee said.

The music was loud enough I imagined I read her lips wrong. But then I realized my two friends were studyin’ Nuel hard. Oh. Ropin’ her into a joke. She fell for it too, blurtin’ her surprise. She’d never heard of that sport.

“Got into it in college,” Darshee said with a nod. Emphatic-like.

“She got me into it last year,” Wizper said.

I announced I preferred wrestlin’ grizzlies, and Darshee and Wizper cracked up. Believe that’s when Nuel wised up to them.

We were on our fifth pitcher, still munchin’ on our dinner sides, though Sissy found my lap a soft place to curl up, when it occurred to me how attractive the three hens were sittin’ around me, mountain sweat aside. That wasn’t the best thought to be havin’. Not if I’m committed to life-long bachelorhood. Also ridiculous, was includin’ the Northern hen in my thoughts. She doesn’t even like me. Only puttin’ up with me since I brought her to the party.

An enormous bam echoed through the bar and a roar of applause dizzied me a bit. Couldn’t have had anything to do with the amount of beer we’d been loopin’ down.

The hens wore big grins, which made me worry a second. No. They weren’t readin’ my earlier thoughts. They’d been watchin’ the competition going on behind me, in the center of the bar where the humans were playin’ kick me off the mountain. At least that’s what we ogres called it when we were younglings.

I turned in my seat to take in the contest. Sissy gave me an unhappy glare. It was past her bedtime.

Two parallel chalk marks on the floor, offset and diagonal to each other, were the game’s mountain in this case. The jousters toed their lines, fists gripped, and toiled to knock the other off his spot on the floor. Fun, when I was ten. Not so much now.

The gent takin’ all comers was the size of a troll. Maybe a smidgen bigger in both directions. Still wore his leather pants and vest, tats coverin’ every inch of bare skin below his chin. Goatee and ponytail, thick-sole biker boots. He could do a minin’ commercial, demonstratin’ the proper method to crush rocks with his forehead. He had enough muscle to be an ogre, maybe more than the average.

The current stooge got dumped hard within three seconds. The crowd howled. I even found it kind of funny.

A friend of the human-troll lab experiment transitioned the ten bucks the challenger had set on the challenge stool to the pile of winnings on the right. Appeared the human-troll would let his money ride.

“Come on! Who’s next?” blared over the blues still playin’.

I jerked. What?

“Ike! Ike! Ike!”

That was Nuel. I gave her a bit of a panicked look, maybe. Ogres don’t play bar games with humans. The guy was a mountain, but if I hurt him, I’d be sued for every penny I’m worth. My dreads shook across my shoulders with vigor.

But now the whole bar joined in, shoutin’ my name. The lab-experiment pointed at me. Oh boy. He gave me that come-now or I’ll kill ya, challenge. Uh oh. Darshee and Wizper were pullin’ me out of my chair, Sissy sadly droppin’ to all fours. The bar was going bezonkers.

Clearly the lab-experiment didn’t mind going up against me. Goes to figger. I’m a bit undersized for an ogre. Shorter than the average. I’m only six-eight. Well under four hundred pounds. The lab-experiment appeared to top that by a hundred. I would look up at him.

My feet dragged across the rough floor slats. The bar was in a frenzy. The noise rattled the ear bones. The juke box might as well have been off. I pried please-don’t looks at Darshee and Wizper, but they were in berserk mode, lips wide, tusks extended, grinnin’ like morphed banshees. Broad hands extended across my back. Who. Oh, man. Nuel was shovin’ me along.

I levitated to the chalk line, I think, though I’d prolly have bruises on my arms tomorrow that fit the paws of a couple hens I know.

Nuel dropped a ten-spot on the challenge stool. Well, what healthy male could walk away now? The lab-experiment extended his hand, which was truly as big as a troll’s. I had been good at kick me off the mountain, against other ogrelings. This guy was half daemon or goblin. I’d never heard of any of those particular interracial couplings, but this guy was proof it happened.

His eighteen-inch hand folded over mine, and the crowd shouted, “Go,” surprisingly in good unison, considerin’ the combined beer that had prolly been drained thus far this evening. They must deliver the beer to Lew’s by tanker truck.

Troll-man gripped tight. I didn’t want to break his hand, but the vise is part of the—couldn’t call it a game, considerin’ the look in the face across from me.

He readied for a quick jerk. Never was my style. I was always more a Judo-style fighter, prefer to allow my opponent to overcommit.

Every knuckle cracked—not that I could hear it. We glared at each other, every muscle taut. Bulges raised the guy’s vest. As the slow back and forth motion as we felt each other out extended, the din in the bar lowered, every drunken sot whisperin’ their champion’s name. It was about even between the Ike camp and the—sounded like Arotts.

My lower back warned it might cramp. Stink this guy was strong.

The whispered Ike-Arotts grew louder.

He made his first move, but I saw it in his face before I felt it in my fist. Still I almost flew into the crowd behind him. Don’t know how I kept my feet flat. The crowd screamed with excitement. I came really close to rockin’ toe to heel. He knew it, and reversed, then shirked left.

I followed his shift smoothly.

He slung his left arm out for balance, so at least I nudged him, and maybe his confidence waned, like a quarter decibel.

We settled to a slower back-and-forth and the din returned to the repetitive Ike-Arotts. Sweat dripped into my eyes. My wrist ached. My rotator-cuff screamed.

What stank about the whole thing, if I won, I could never brag. I mean, an ogre beatin’ a human. Big whoopty doo. But if he won, my face would be on the cover of every sleazy yellow rag. Our best deeds tend to explode in our face. Doesn’t matter that my opponent is some testosterone freak. On the bright side, Nuel would win a big pile of cash. It was her ten spot on the challenge stool.

Finally, I sensed a little tension in his sweat-coated face, and it dawned on me this guy spent his formative years battlin’ trolls and goblins for lunch money, and was used to winnin’.

But he had met someone that used strategy over muscle. And he didn’t know what to do.

My abs were screamin’, harmonizin’ with my lower back.

The chants rose in speed. The crowd was ready for a winner.

My guy was done, and went for the killer press to my chest. I pulled him in, but his superior reach worked for him. I twisted to pull him past me, and he smiled. He had me.

Except he didn’t. I could face south without movin’ my feet. We ogres, despite being dense, are surprisingly lithe. I got his fist against my chest and wrenched deeper into my twist, and the crowd screamed.

He had to have lifted his heel.

I think it ticked him off, because he leapt into me, takin’ me to the floor, as I pounded his left fist with my face. My throat did its best to strangle his right mitt.

I’m a lover, not a fighter.

~ Nuel ~

It had to be the excitement in the air. This proper Northern hen wouldn’t have otherwise gotten behind the crass boisterousness and howling. But the grins were penetrating, so I refuse to feel guilty for joining in the fun.

For an undersized ogre, Ike stood in there well.

Of course, with the serious issues in front of us, I knew I’d feel guilty tomorrow for blowing off a little steam tonight. And the headache would double up my regret.

But Wizper and Darshee were funnier than all get out. When this is all over, whenever, I hope I can call them friends.

~