Rogers sized up the situation. One of them might get a lucky strike in and put

him down. It was fortunate none had brought a gun.

 

He might lose. But he was probably going to win. The one thing he knew, though,

was that he was going to fight. “Trust me,” he said to the black guy. “It won’t

feel like four to one in a couple of minutes. And I’ll save you for last.”

“Right. In case you didn’t notice, we’re all big and a lot younger than you.”

“Well, you were bigger and younger than me last night too. How did that work out

for you?” “Your ass got lucky.” “Nobody’s that lucky.” “Hell, we live for

violence.” “Not the kind of violence you’re going to see from me.” “You’re full

of shit!” “Then let’s get this started.” Rogers rubbed his head. He knew that

once the fighting really started, he was not going to be able to control

himself. The muscles in his arms, legs, and shoulders knotted. He was ready to

strike. He would have to leave his job at the bar after this. He had no other

choice.

 

He took a breath, let it out evenly. His nerves calmed, his heartbeat slowed,

his blood flow grew steady. He popped his neck and was just about to deliver his

first kill stroke of the night when a car’s beams cut through the darkness.

 

They all watched as a police cruiser rolled to a stop. A moment later they got

hit with a spotlight mounted on the side of the car.

 

A voice on a PA said, “What the hell is going on here?” The black guy called