“Hey! That was my brother! Just for that, I am gonna _nail you to the wall, you scruffy little bastard_!”
Everyone in the tavern, brawlers, bystanders, barmaids and stray dogs alike, gave a sharp, horrified, gasp of breath. Even the flies froze in mid air. A menacing silence thick enough to feel on one’s skin descended on the room. People glanced nervously at each other, uncertain what to do next and waiting for someone to make the first move. Every eye in the room suddenly was riveted on the local bully, who had started the fight in the first place, and the man who faced him.
At first glance this stranger seemed harmless enough – not very tall, ragged clothes, scuffed boots and utilitarian back pack, quiver and bow. Closer inspection revealed the weather- beaten skin and sun bleached hair of an outdoors man. The sword tucked away in its sheath was not noticeable at first because he carried it as if it were an extension of his arm and he laid it aside with extra care. This more than anything should have alerted anyone interested in picking a fight that, despite his wide smile and laughing eyes, he was no easy target. This man was a seasoned warrior, skilled with his sword, quick with his fists, and not easily intimidated.
Having, indeed, disposed of the bully’s drunken brother, Iolaus had been prepared to take on anyone else who thought they could club him from behind with impunity. His normal fighting style was a graceful flow from one opponent to the next, never missing a beat and never staying still long enough for anyone to land an effective hit. However, as soon as the enraged brother had shouted his threat, Iolaus had come to a sudden, and frightening, stop. He stood directly in front of his tormentor, absolutely still. Their eyes locked and for a moment, both ready to do the other damage, but neither man moved.
Hercules, positioned at his partner’s back, on hearing the drunken bully’s threat, was so startled that he dropped the two men he had lifted into the air, preparatory to cracking their heads together. They landed hard on their butts and, not being completely stupid, quickly scooted out of range. Slowly the demigod turned to look over at the hulking brute who had uttered those fateful words.
“Did you just say what I thought you just said?” he asked in shocked disbelief.
“Are you talkin’ ‘a’ me?” Iolaus asked quietly, his voice low and dangerous.
“Oh, you shouldn’t’a said that,” Hercules said, shaking his head. How could a man be so dense?
“Are _you_ talkin’ ‘a’ _me_?” Iolaus repeated. He began to advance on the oversized thug, his hands clenching into tight fists. The thug resolutely stood his ground.
Hercules threw his hands up in defeat. Was this idiot suicidal or what?
“Yup, he really did say it,” he sighed and looked around the tavern. “Can you believe some people?” he finished rhetorically. He began to say something else to the thug who looked mulishly unrepentant, then thought better of the idea. With a shrug of his shoulders he stepped to the sidelines, mentally washing his hands of the whole mess.
By now others, sensing danger, were beginning to shake their heads ruefully as well and step back from the action, seeking safer ground. The outcome of this confrontation was becoming more and more obvious.
“_ARE. YOU. TALKING. TO. ME_?” Iolaus shouted into the hapless giant’s face.
The bully stared down at his smaller opponent, still confident that his longer reach and greater overall size would soon put paid to this little braggart.
“Yeah, I am,” he said with a dismissive sneer. “You got a problem with that?”
Iolaus paused and considered. His face became thoughtful and he stroked his chin as he pondered the full implication of the bigger man’s words. Did he really have a problem with someone threatening his life and calling him names? Was he really that petty? He regarded his opponent, who had by this time added a triumphant glint in his eye to the sneer that seemed permanently stuck on his broad, red face.
“Matter of fact I do,” Iolaus said conversationally.
In the blink of an eye Iolaus transformed into a whirlwind of destruction and mayhem. His right fist lashed out and caught the bigger man neatly on the jaw, knocking him back. Before he could recover, Iolaus leaped into the air and spiked his heel up under the man’s chin. The bully staggered back, tripped on an overturned chair and fell heavily on his butt.
“I may be scruffy!” Iolaus shouted angrily and grabbed the fallen man by the front of his shirt. “I may be a bastard!” he snarled into the big man’s face, then punched hard with his left fist. The thug went down, stunned by the force of the blow. For good measure, Iolaus landed a kick on the fool’s backside. “But I am NOT!” he grated as he stood over his fallen foe. “Repeat -- NOT! _LITTLE_!”
The bully, fully cowed, tried to make himself smaller by curling into a fetal position. It took every ounce of his will to not stick his thumb in his mouth and start sucking. He’d suffered enough humiliation for one day.
Iolaus straightened up and dusted off his hands, satisfied that this one, at least, would not be giving him anymore grief for the time being. He made a quick survey of the other people standing around the tavern. They were all staring at him, thunder struck at how easily and effectively the most hated bully in town had been reduced to a quivering mass on the floor.
“Anybody else wanna discuss that point?” Iolaus asked warningly.
Suddenly everyone was fascinated by his or her footwear. Eyes flashed to the bar, broken chairs, spilled tankards, disheveled garments – anywhere but those hard, steely blue eyes. Conversations picked up where they had left off before the brawl had so rudely interrupted. Small talk was passed between strangers. Chairs were righted, broken tables pushed out of the way and those with minor injuries given damp cloths to clean their wonds. Everyone hoped and prayed to any nearby, passing or interested gods that this whirling dervish who had entered their midst would overlook them.
Iolaus stared around him, frustrated at this obvious attempt to avoid him. He crossed his arms and began to tap his foot, impatient for someone to take up his challenge. He was still in brawl mode, his heart pounding and muscles tensed for action. The longer he waited, the greater his frustration. Wasn’t _anybody_ going to fight him? That sucked! Here he was all worked up and his juices flowing and nobody even wanted to –
A sudden, heavy hand on his arm startled him into whirling around to face a new threat, ready to fight. At last! With a blood-curdling battle shout, he threw a hard right at this new foe. Hercules easily caught his fists before they could go too far.
“Whoa, Buddy,” he said with a smile. “Easy. It’s me.”
Iolaus gradually relaxed and his breathing slowly returned to normal. Hercules gently released his hold, and slid a companionable arm around Iolaus’ shoulders, steering him toward the bar as everyone scrambled to get out of their way.
“Beer?” Hercules asked.
“Yeah,” Iolaus answered after a moment, his sunny nature restored at the suggestion. “Beer sounds good.”
Disclaimer: Nobody was permanently damaged in writing this story although the bully did start to see the error of his ways, once he regained consciousness. He became something of a reformed character in the weeks following his encounter with Iolaus. Whether he maintains his new attitude remains to be seen.
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