Tell Mister Xerxes

To face the Outlaws head-on
I dare him. Tell him

THEIR BATTLE FORMATION, which had begun as an inebriated, disorderly march turned out to be a well-coordinated phalanx.

The outlaws were naturals when it came to fights. Even in their drunken stupor, they would comfortably defeat King Xerxes with their arms zip-tied behind their backs.

But that would only be possible if they could travel back in time, participate in the Battle of Thermopylae and face the tyrant god-king and his Persian hordes head-on. (Yes, they are outlaw bikers, they wear helmets too).

Those men on the other side, who knew of the brotherhood's homicidal reputation, turned and ran away while they could. It was a good choice. They had their reasons. Even by the Greek god of war's standard, Ares, it was an excusable decision.

The able-bodied men with steaming hot veins formed an instant alliance. They didn't turn. For them, it was a do-or-die business — shatter some heads or get shattered while trying. They stood their ground to fight, belligerent flames burning within their eyes and hearts, ready to set ablaze their foes. They also charged like rugby blindside flankers.

Before the rugby royale, kindly allow the rules to precede. Thank you for having the patience of a saint, lovely reader.

First off, rules suck, that's the reason why we won't follow them. Hence, the game was supposed to be a friendly rugby seven match. Well, okay, crazy battle. As in only seven players, sorry, I mean seven fighters are allowed on the pitch, err, battleground.

With two very drunk outlaws down and seven able-bodied men on the other side, including Corcoran, it was almost an equal match.

On your marks! Get set! Game on! Whistle.

It was a clash of brass knuckles versus fists, beards versus shaves, leather boots versus flip flops, jackets versus vests, and in general, body odour. (Yes, they all smelled like an unwashed pig sty.)

The first person that hit the dust was fell by the potency of the pungent odor, I was certain. And the person was amongst the League of Able-bodied Mad Boys — L.A.M.B.

Seven against six, I counted, the battle excitement churning up my insides like the fog of thick dust slowly rising up on the battleground. I wondered what it would be like to be out there in the action.

I go back on my wonderment. I do not want to be out there. Yet, I squinted my eyes to catch every action.

A mystery that cannot be explained till this day, was how Molotov cocktails got introduced into the battle. As it seemed, the Harlin Outlaws were always prepared for fights. Perhaps, they were able to ready the fiery weapons with their remnants of brandys and whiskeys.

Spikey was the first to hurl the handmade bottle bomb, which almost landed squarely on Corcoran's face.

It was Corcoran's hand the size of a bin lid that swiped just in time to block the Molotov. The incendiary smashed into pieces and exploded on impact, few inches away from blackening his face. Holes peppered his shoulders and chest, causing thin gray smoke to smolder his uniform.

"Impressive throw." Corcoran clapped, brushing off the tiny flames dancing hula hula on his shoulders. "I believe you know you're a dead patootie, right?" He yanked a rod-shaped handle off a tumble-down cart and made for a grinning Spikey.

In another part of the street, Preacher, a member of the MC brotherhood, jabbed a brass-knuckled punch at a bald, muscular L.A.M.B guy.

Bald Lamb sidestepped. In one fluid motion, before Preacher could think of retracting his arm, Bald Lamb grabbed the arm. He kneed it and with a loud snap-crackle-pop, the bone fractured, pierced the skin, jutted out and glistened with a bloody shine.

"Ki-yi…Arrghh!" Preacher let out an excruciating yelp. The brass knuckle fell off his hand. "My arm!"

I resisted the urge to shout the famous 300 Spartan catchphrase, It's not yours anymore.

Bald Lamb let go of Preacher who passed out before he hit the ground. He disarmed Preacher off of his metallic knuckle and wore it for himself. Bald flexed his fingers, and shared a coincidental moment with Thanos, a Marvel alien antagonist hell-bent on finding five powerful stones to adorn his purple knuckles.

Perhaps, Bald is also destined to find all the brass knuckles on the battlefield.

Meanwhile, Monster, who had refused to join his comrades in battle was peering into the hodgepodge of abandoned stalls that huddled together down the narrow street.

Obviously, he was searching for the truants Corcoran ought to have. He was searching for us.

"Wakey-wakey," he'd say in an irritating singsong voice, "time for the little barn owls to get more mate-y."  Then, he'd hit a corrugated iron sheet covering a rundown stall with his shotgun and listen for a telltale whimper.

His search stretched on for what he thought must have been eons — a good ten seconds. He stifled a yawn. Boredom was beginning to creep in. He gymed a lot but patience is the last thing he could exercise.

The background battle score was now five against four — with the Harlin outlaws leading.

Corcoran was still on his feet but Spikey wasn't. The funny punk was lying sprawled on the floor with a funnier bloody nose and his neck twisted at the funniest angle I've seen. Perhaps, he got a celestial transfer.

Sighting another outlaw, Corcoran moved with blinding speed, a club held deftly his hand. With deathly accuracy, he bludgeoned an unwary Trigger who dropped to the floor as stiff as a board.

Four against four, I counted in the safety of my sanctuary.

Over the pounding of my heart, I heard the unmistakable rumbling sound of a motorcycle engine. An outlaw biker with military flattop haircut charged an L.A.M.B wearing a clubmaster sunglasses.

At the other end of the alley, Mr Clubmaster Eyes was placing a nail plank trap in the path of his incoming attacker. He stood up, a little too slow, just in time to catch the outlaw's fist in his nose. His sunglasses flew off as he pinwheeled in response to the impact of the blow. However, he fell with a triumphant wet smile coated on his face.

Not up to an eye-blink later, the tyres of the outlaw biker ran over the nail trap. With a loud blast, the air in the rubber tube escaped and the bike wobbled sideway together with a screaming rider.

A draw. Three against three. I was battle-insatiated.

In another part of the battle, an L.A.M.B member hefted a nailed plank and smacked Crow the mohawk guy in the head. I couldn't really tell if it was his blood or his hair, but the punk was very red on the head as slowly he wiggled downward.

Two against three. L.A.M.B's leading. I'll make a good commentator.

"Where the thump are you, kids?" Monster hissed impatiently, reminding me that I'm still under the radar of danger. His voice was no longer the singsong type. "Come out of the holes you're hiding or — , " he scanned his surroundings, " — or we do it my way."

No one replied him. It made him look like a fool talking to himself. He was getting furious by the second.

THLUCK. He poked a plywooded stall with the barrel of his shotgun. The thin material holed, letting in a beam of sunlight. "You wouldn't want to know how things go my way, would you?" He cracked his gun so we could hear he wasn't fooling around.

Like the mercury inside a clinical thermometer, the heat in our small hiding area climbed up at a geometrical rate causing us to sweat out fear.

Breathe. All is well. I assured myself. Somehow I was being mollified by the slow intake of air and inshallah.

It dawned on me that we were rather lucky to be safe in a sanctuary city amidst an ongoing Talibanesque riot outside. A turmoil that was occurring thanks to us.

But wait, cities or countries in general are supposedly open-aired and spacious, right?

That's not the case with the one we happened to find ourselves in. There was nothing sanctuarizing about this city. Nothing opened or spacious about it. I was afraid Lucy might get hysterical or claustrophobic. We felt landlocked. Okay, I'll just say it. We felt Afghanistaned!

We were hyperventilating. There was hardly any room for our feet. The heat was a Celsius next to unbearable. It was like that of Helios, the sun Titan. I felt I was going to die of either heatstroke or heart-stroke in the next few seconds.

The scarcity of foot room caused Lucy to accidentally step on Luke with her pumps. Thluck.

Of course, it was an accident, but a deed done was a deed done.

Luke sizzled, his face beetroot, suppressing the — "Ow…" He let it out.

"Sheeesh!" I whispered, urging Luke to be quiet.

Luke looked like he was going to cry, I'm trying to, or with some telepathic powers yell into my ears, I was just stepped on by bloody pumps! But no. He let it pass.

Even though it was a small whimper and the air was filled with screams of men and booms of bombs, Monster's ears pricked up.

Suddenly, the small man turned, directly facing me — who was peeking through a hole behind the corrugated sheet. For a moment, our eyes locked again. Hazel for obsidian, obsidian for hazel but he didn't seem to notice.

I tried hiding myself better away from the predator's view. I was wrong doing that.

Monster burst forth like a fired bullet. Like his shotgun bullet for a more personal description.

He's noticed my small movement. He's sighted us. And the chase was just beginning to get interesting.

Don't Forget to VOTE, Reeders☬