Huey was, for lack of a better word, impressed by Grey’s showmanship. For a drunkard, he sure as hell could throw a mean fuckin’ punch; it was enough to crumple the largest man of the trio, and leave the remaining two hesitant, and stumbling with the remnants of their surround-and-conquer strategy.
“Nice moves,” he praised with a mock grin, glancing over to his left. “Now, let me show you a few of mine.”
In an almost cinematic fashion, the dark, tall, thin, afro-sportin’ wanderer stepped forward. A crowd of interested patrons had formed around the two teams, leaving the space between them clear of any excess bodies; besides the few tables and chairs, which were now empty, the only thing keeping Huey from his opponent(s) was smoggy, entirely unhealthy, air.
Rather than take any form definitive of a fighting stance, Huey began to weave and bob, shuffle and jive to a melody only he could hear. A low, barely audible hum sounded from the depths of his stomach, growing louder as the idle seconds passed. His scuffed Jordans, keeping to their rhythmic slip n’slide, almost seemed to float across the poorly kept wooden flooring; he seemed weightless, as if gravity no longer held any sway over his presence.
Then, he vanished.
The speed in which he closed the meager distance (several meters or so) was surprising even to him, though he wasn’t about to question it. For several short seconds, he appeared as nothing more than an ebony blur in the haze and dim lighting of the establishment, reappearing just in time for the pointy-eared elf to unsheathe his blade, which was revealed to be a dagger, and slash at his throat.
Evading the broad assault was as simple as bending at the knees, and the glinting steel passed over him completely, barely nipping the peak of Huey’s rather beastly, large afro. His retort, while equally as simplistic, was more than adequate in terms of effectiveness.
Like a python to its pray, Huey’s right hand lashed forward, so that the curve of his hand – situated between his pointer finger and thumb – slammed into the man’s throat, nearly causing it to collapse. The force behind the blow was staggering, and rocked him back several feet, offering yet another window of opportunity that Huey didn’t intend to let slip by. Compensating for the additional distance with several well placed steps, Huey positioned himself flawlessly for the follow-up—or, in this case, the finisher.
With a speed and precision that rivaled his initial strike, Huey buried his right foot into the man’s chest with a bone-shattering kick. A wave of gut-wrenching force erupted out from, and through, the man’s body at the connection; and with a thunderous roar, that same wave swept him clean off his feet, pushing him through the table directly behind him like a hot knife to butter, plowed him through the bar, and punched him through the back wall holding several rows of bottled beer and alcoholic beverages.
Needless to say, the shortest of the three, the one who hadn’t done anything thus far, was scared shitless—literally. Even with the strong scent of tobacco and liquor filling the room, the foul stench of shit was predominant.
“Damn, son.”
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