Lombardus: The Trident Clown

Chapter 12 ☬

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.