Forever After - By David Jester Page 0,8

around the thin end of the cue and yanked it out of the youngsters’ hands.

With the cue raised above his head he took a quick step away from the table and flashed the weapon at the others who were preparing to launch into an attack. Grinning like a madman he twirled the cue through his hand and over his head, using it like a baton in a parade.

“Every fucking week,” Del muttered bas he watched.

The big biker straightened and moved for Michael, Michael swung for him and caught him square in the jaw with the tip of the cue. The chalked end grazed the bottom of his ear before snapping against his cheekbone. Michael pulled it back for another swing as the big man recoiled, but before he could launch another attack the other men were upon him, their fists and knees jabbing away at his stomach and thighs; their hands grasping for the weapon in his hand. Del and Adam reluctantly threw themselves into the brawl to help their friend, pulling the men off him before they had a chance to do any serious damage. The fight expanded into the rest of the room, as customers ducked and ran out of the way to avoid catching any of the wildly thrown punches and kicks.

It lasted for a few minutes, but for some it felt like hours.

When the fighting had ceased two of the bikers had fled. The biggest one lay partially unconscious at the foot of the snooker table, having found himself the main beneficiary of the boot, fist and weapon attacks. The other two were wearily bent-double on the floor; contemplating a return to the fight whilst keeping one eye on the exit should the fight return to them.

“Well, that was fun,” Michael beamed, admiring his handiwork.

Del and Adam had both received broken noses and bloodied faces for their trouble, Adam was having a hard time standing up and felt like he was about to unleash his guts onto the floor via his mouth and anus simultaneously, but Michael seemed to have been perked up by the fight. His eyes were quickly swelling, his nose and lip were both bleeding and his shirt was torn, but he was happier than when it had started.

The sound of police sirens filtered through to battle-weary ears that hissed with constant whines or didn’t work at all.

Michael casually walked to the bar, returning to his pint. “Drink up,” he told his friends.

The bartender, who had phoned the police during the fracas, stood in wait. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he told Michael with a stern but concerned expression on his face.

“You shouldn’t have called the cops,” Michael told him, still smiling.

“You just pissed off a very strong gang.”

Michael shrugged and downed his drink in one go, spilling half of it down his top as his swollen lip failed to get a clean purchase. He finished with a relishing sigh and a smile that beamed even wider.

“They weren’t that strong, right guys?” he said, turning to his two friends.

Del shrugged nonchalantly. “We’ve had worse.”

Michael waited for his friends to pour their drinks down their tops with equal gusto before they all exited the pub, leaving it empty barring the broken bikers crawling and groaning on the floor -- the rest of the patrons had left at varying times during the brawl.

Outside the sounds of sirens were heavy in the air. The lights of advancing police cars ascended into the night sky, flashing at the darkness like a dazzling and distant firework show.

“Split up and fucking leg it!” Michael hollered.

They turned in different directions and fled the scene. Michael scuppered across the road, ducked into an unlit backstreet and then dove down an opposing alleyway. He enjoyed the adrenaline of the chase as much as the fight and was still grinning broadly when he breathlessly slumped down on a step deep inside the alleyway -- the road, the pub and the police cars, all out of sight.

He looked around in the stale darkness, assessing his poorly lit location. To his right the back-way to another stretch of alley was blocked by an overflowing dumpster. Behind him, on the cold step where he took refuge, a grime covered door shielded the back entrance to a liquidated fast-food restaurant.

The light was dim, the source distant and obscured, but it was prominent enough for him to make out the small cuts on his knuckles and the pencil-shaped bruise on his palm. The light wasn’t strong enough for