Slowly Lynch approaches the bar, puts his hand out and takes Fister’s hand in his. He gives the hand a rough tug and steps back, yanking Fister halfway over the bar. Fister looks shocked, his pumped glistening torso stretched over the wet bar top, his meaty buttocks arching up in the smoky air. Classic what-the-fuck look on his face.
Without letting go of his grip on the blond’s hand, Lynch leans in close to his ear and speaks in a loud stage whisper so that everybody in the hushed bar hears him: “Cut. The. Bullshit.”
Fister blinks, slightly rattled and humiliated. Lynch lets his hand go, and he slides back to the other side of the bar. Fister grits his teeth and breathes through his incisors. His hand is trembling.
“Asshole,” he mumbles under his breath and spits on the floor right next to Lynch’s foot.
In a flash Lynch lunges over the bar and slams Fister against the glass bottles on the glass shelves in front of the mirror. Ten bottles of the cheap stuff hit the rubber matting on the floor. Nothing shatters except for one of the glass shelves, which breaks into four big pieces and slides to the floor, and the mirror cracks weblike behind Fister’s head.
Fister rebounds and grabs Lynch round the head and slams it to the top of the bar. Patrons, some of whom are sitting at the bar, make room, scattering to the corners, leaving the two men plenty of room.
Fister grinds Lynch’s face over the polished mahogany to a marble cutting board inlaid in the bar. He lifts Lynch’s head by a fistful of his hair and drives it down to the white marble. Greg grunts. Blood speckles the marble. He springs backwards, driving his elbow against Lynch’s jaw. Fister spins and spits out a bloody molar, which flies about 12 feet, landing at a patron’s feet.
Lynch hooks his leg into Fister’s and shoves him to the counter. Fists flying. Lynch’s knuckles slam Fister’s mouth, repeatedly, bouncing the back of the blonds’ head on the hardwood. Lynch pulls himself off Fister, who looks like he’s gone limp.
“Oh shit!” one of the customers screams, as Fister shakily lifts his head, the back of his long hair streaked crimson.
Lynch reaches down grabbing a hank of Fister’s blood stained hair pulling him up. Fister is barely off his knees when he drives his fist deep into Lynch’s belly doubling the quiet man over. Lynch moans are low as he holds his gut. A fist to the base of his neck sends him down on all fours, crawling along the bar rail.
Fister stomps and kicks the Irishman in his sides much to the delight of the bar patrons. The owner of The Dump is ecstatic until he realizes that the crowd is smaller than normal. Two security guards swoop in separating Lynch and Fister as they continue to exchange words. “I’ll kick his fucking ass.” "That bitch is mine." The owner draws up the paperwork and their fight is set for Saturday night.
(To be continued)