In the rural Kentucky sat down on another late dinner by itself at the bar. I was waiting for the chicken fried steak and the potatoes and gravy to arrive.
The place is packed with locals and some tough looking truck drivers. Once again, I'm in a suit and running my own business. And once again - the vacant seat between me and the next patron. I'm not ready to place - it seems to happen naturally.
Three overweight bearded men in flannel and Carharts looking like Tolkien movie dwarves have set up shop near me. It's clear they're all drinking heavily because even though I can usually bite through hillbilly twangs - these guys are slurring their words to something awful. I can smell the clouds of the foot, and the fried food coming out of them.
The bartender (male) cashed out and a new slide came in. She's in her early 40s, showing off braided strawberry blonde hair, heavy smoky makeup, lots of cleavage, and the smell of cigarette smoke. I can see the beginning of an intricate tattoo on the side of his neck disappearing into his brief shirt top. I have also noted a few different tattoos on his forearms. She fills my ice tea and turns her attention to Larry, Curly and Mo. This is the time when things getting to take a dark turn.
Larry notices his tattoo and makes some vague remarks about it. Curly looks at it and his eyes go to her deep, fake cleavage. Moe - pronounced for short - reaches out to touch without permission. Huge mistake.
As her hands make contact with the flesh, she grasps her fingers and flexes them sharply backwards, I feel a shriek of anguish with a loud snap as the fingers and wrists fracture. It is, I think.
I slide a touch back to give room and space. Curly snores and goes to hit the woman behind the bar. He has already let go of Mo's torn arm and blocks Curly's wide punch. With her other hand, she presses her palm under his pulls his head back and slams him to the floor.
The other patrons have retreated and someone is shouting to call the police. The third man grabs a fallen bottle and swings on it. She blocks his with her forearm and punches him on the throat - dropping him on the floor.
By now, my suit has been covered in crumbled and rings of their fries and onions. I am less happy with the development. I look at her and clear my throat.
"Ma'am, can I speak to the owner?"
She replies without hesitation, "That's me - what the you want, Mr. Bidnezz!"
I was going to complain about the stain on my suit—but backed off and simply replied, "I was hoping you might be inclined to check my food order when you have a moment." Huh?"
She sighed loudly and went back to the kitchen. The food was back in a minute or two. She presented it as sweet as she could with an apology for the uproar.
It was a great meal - served with a bonus appetizer of WTF.
When the sheriff came, he caught the three drunkards and hugged the woman and asked her to calm down. It was bad for business.
