Disclaimer: I own nothing. All Buffy The Vampire Slayer characters are the property of their original owners.
“Look, will you just get the fuck outta here?”
The one-eyed guy in his chair didn’t react the slightest, continuing to instead stare ahead over the dozen empty whiskey glasses on the table and not paying any attention whatsoever to the large and very hairy man in his grubby outfit of greasy jeans and a stained t-shirt leaning over the dingy table, who’d just rasped that demand. No, it was the woman seated next to him, who’d been worriedly regarding her companion for the last half-hour, that lifted her brunette head to glare with absolute fury at the owner and bartender of the run-down saloon named after himself that these people were currently occupying, with that pair being the only customers in the whole bar.
Joey had thought he’d seen dangerous people before in his life, but that lady had just shifted into a truly threatening air of what could only be dubbed as ‘serious pucker factor’, which was only heightened by her icy snarl of, “Yer really throwin’ us outta this dump? Ya an’ what fuckin’ army?”
Taking an unexpected step back, Joey gulped, and then he hastily rallied, to growl, “Lissen, I’m doin’ the both of you a favor! This place is the hangout for the worse biker gang in the state! They always come here ’round midnight, and they don’t like at ALL strangers in their territory! I’m safe, but the last time they caught a guy in here they didn’t know, they punched him out, took him outside into the parking lot, and tossed him into the air to see if how he'd come down, on his front or back. He landed on his back, which meant when they wrapped a chain around his ankles and dragged him behind a bike at full speed down the road for a coupla hunnert yards, he just lost alla his butt instead of his face! Now, wilya beat it?”
“Bless me, how jolly delightful! They sound just like perfectly fine fellows to share a jovial quaff amongst us!” was then happily spoken in an atrocious English accent from the guy at the table, who turned to beam at the dumbfounded owner.
“Fer Chrissakes, will ya stop imitatin’ Giles? Dammit, Xander, ya always-- Oh, fuck.” The woman had stopped short in her angry scolding, to trail off into a quieter comment, for no obvious reason the other two men could recognize. At least, until a few moments later, the entire bar began to softly tremble, followed by the rumble through the air of at least a dozen overbuilt motorcycle engines.
Joey rapidly scuttled behind the bar counter, calling out when he got there, “You’re on your own. I don’t see nothin’, I don’t hear nothin’, I don’t say nothin’, and I’ll live a helluva lot longer than you.” The bartender folded his tattooed arms across his burly chest, looked up at the ceiling, and did his best to ignore the building’s shaking as multiple horsepower pulled into the parking lot in front.
Grinning maniacally, Xander Harris leaned forward across the bar table to shout above the thunderous noise into Faith Lehane’s irritated face, “I really like that guy! He’ll be on my Christmas fruitcake list this year, for sure!”
Faith just glared back.
Outside, the noise abruptly cut off, all at once, leaving behind the same kind of sinister silence a mob creates when they hold their breath during that moment just before the guillotine blade drops.
Joey closed his eyes.
Xander winked at Faith.
Faith gave Xander the finger.
The front door of the bar was kicked open, slamming against the wall, to be held there by the entrance of numerous huge specimens of biker troglodytes squeezing themselves into the saloon, accompanied by the scrapings of their leather outfits with the attached chains, belts, knife sheaths, and iPod holders making menacing sounds as these were dragged past the edges of the doorway.
Stalking towards the bar counter, the biker gang was wearing their club name and colors on the backs of their jackets, showing to the entire world that every one of them was proud to call themselves a RAPED RHINO RIDER (you really don’t want to know about the design below the name), until simultaneously, all of them halted in their tracks, their heads swiveling to look at the table in the corner where a smokin’ mama was holding her hand over her eyes, and a guy with an eyepatch was cheerfully waving his right arm at them while sticking his first two left fingers in his mouth to whistle shrilly for their attention.