The Mayan Codex

30

It was an uneven fight. The hang-arounds didn’t really have their hearts in it. The main problem was that no one had tanked up yet on beer and mescal and crank. The Skunks weren’t honed. They had no edge to them.

The fat guy, and the thin guy, and the harelip guy, and the guy that limped, all moved one way, and the albino giant just came straight at them through the tables. Drinkers scattered in every direction. The female freaks circled around the outside of the fight like barracuda, watching for an opening.

Each of the freaks drew fighting batons from their sleeves. Seeing this, a few of the hang-arounds began to lose heart.

The albino reached them first. Christ, but he was fucking enormous.

Two of the hang-arounds drew knives, to sort of puncture his morale, but he just swept over them with his fighting baton, cracking the head of one, and smashing in the other man’s teeth.

By this time the four other male freaks had hit the ground running. Batons were swirling and swishing through the air. Bones were cracking – hang-arounds were screaming.

Skip ducked under a table, hoping to get a chance to cut someone’s hamstring, but two of the female freaks caught sight of what he was doing and piled chairs and tables on top of him, until he was completely covered by a fretwork of steel tubing.

Aldinach stood by the bar, one eye on the barman, the other on the fight.

‘You with these people?’ the barman said.

‘Never met them before in my life.’ Aldinach glanced towards the main door. Customers were exiting through it in droves. ‘Do you think anyone will call the police?’

The barman shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. But I figure not. Sort of clients we get don’t find cops copacetic.’

‘Are you going to call the police?’

‘What for? How often do I get to see the Skunks getting their hides furrowed?’

Things were quieting down now. Most of the hang-arounds had either fled or were stretched out on the floor or across the bar furniture.

Aldinach minced across the floor towards the mayhem. The eight Corpus members turned towards her as one.

‘Skip,’ she said, in a high, girlie little voice. ‘You under there?’

Oni cleared the tables and chairs that were piled up above Skip Dearborn’s huddled form. He had adopted the foetal position, same as you do when you are attacked by wild dogs.

Skip emerged from beneath the wreckage and stood up. He was holding his switchblade and the can of pepper spray out in front of him as if they were some sort of lucky charm – a string of garlic designed to ward off vampires. He looked around at what remained of his merry band of men. ‘Shit.’

‘You going to use that?’ Aldinach approached closer.

‘This was some kind of set-up, wasn’t it? You’re all in this together? You knew this was going to happen before we even came in. You people suckered us. You ain’t no fucking Desiree.’ Skip raised the pepper spray.

Aldinach snatched a fighting baton from Nawal’s hand. Before Skip was able to respond, she brought the baton down across his knife hand, smashing the bone. Then, as he bent down to grab his wrist, she smashed him across the back of the neck, snatched the can of pepper spray, and blasted him full in the face.

Skip pole-axed to the ground like a discarded shirt.

‘Heck of a date,’ said Aldinach, as she and her siblings started out of the building.