Second Wave...1st Strike
"All I'm saying is, there are reasons why my kind don't trust humans." said O'Brien.
"Of course there are," agreed Penelope, "and there are reasons why humans don't trust demons. It's hard enough to have peace between groups that are competing for the same resources. It's impossible when one group routinely preys on the other."
"I think we're wandering a bit from the purpose of the meeting," said Natasha. She'd enjoyed the discussion, but they had work to do.
"Yes, Ma'am" answered Penelope. 'Sorry, ma'am. How did we get on this subject, anyway ?"
Sergeant Wolfe answered with a smirk. "You were discussing how to deal with the different groups that the loan-shark demon identified. I'm not sure where it went from there."
The "Command Group", which for practical purposes was most of the unit, were gathered to review the intelligence thay'd gathered in the last few hours.
They had a lot to go over.
"Let's review. The loan shark gave us a list of people and places to check out." said Natasha. She turned to the Professor and asked, "Are there really such places as demon bars ?"
"Demons like to socialize just as much as humans do." he replied. "Well, some species do, anyway. And there has to be some kind of neutral ground, even for the unsociable ones, so they can meet to discuss matters of mutual interest."
"Of the three places he mentioned, This one," he said as he pointed to the list, "is a favorite among what you might call the demon underworld. Bikers, vamps, Fyarls, and a dozen other species, any one of which would kill you for fun, or kill each other. Which they do on a pretty regular basis. There's an anti-violence spell on the place, but it wore off years ago, and it never extended beyond the building. Even most demons stay away from the place."End Flashback:
"The little old lady from Pasadena...(go granny, go granny, go granny go)"
The Polgara was a Beach Boys fan. He'd fed about twenty dollars in quarters into the jukebox (God only knew where he'd gotten them), and they'd all been listening to surfing and car songs for the last hour. Nobody else liked it, but no one cared enough to object.
There were only about a dozen demons in the place tonight, which was more than the bartender had expected. A lot of his regulars had been killed by the "new" demons, and others had moved south or east and been killed by the humans. He didn't know what Akron was coming to, but it wasn't good.
If he could have found a safe way to move his wife and son, he would have pulled out himself. As it was, he'd hidden them in the swimming pool of a nearby apartment complex (there were advantages to marrying a woman whose species was amphibious)."has a pretty little flower bed of white gardenias...(go granny, go granny, go granny go)"
The assortment of creatures looked up when the stranger entered. This was a new customer, and that was strange enough in itself. Stranger still, he was one of the wrinkle-faced kitten eaters, whose actual species name no one could pronounce. They didn't usually come in here; although they could defend themselves if they had to, they preferred to avoid trouble, and this wasn't the best place to do that.
The stranger walked nervously up to the bar, while everyone else watched his back. the bartender could hear some of the troublemakers starting to mutter."..But parked in the rickety old garage..."
The stranger leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. "F-F-Fermented yak urine, please." he asked. Nobody
said 'please' in this place.
The bartender poured the drink, then placed in in front of the stranger, who pulled back slightly. The bartender reached forward a little further.
Suddenly, the stranger lurched forward, grabbed the bartender's arm, and dove over the bar, dragging the bartender with him to the floor behind it.
The bartender said "What the f..", and before he could finish he heard the sound of explosions, and gunfire, and something that sounded like electricity...and screams.
When he cautiously stuck his head above the bar, he saw his customers lying in various types of mangled heaps, and most of his furniture smashed. The front and back doors had both been kicked (or maybe blown) in, and several armed strangers had entered.
The strangers seemed to be human, although there was at least one "human-plus"; that brownskinned girl was obviously a Slayer, and he would have known that even if she wasn't leaping like a mongoose at one of the only two demons still standing.
The second surviving demon was at the table closest to the bar. He was a regular, although the bartender didn't know the species - sort of half-biker and half something-with-scales. He'd taken cover behind an overturned table; now he was on his feet and looking for a target, and the target he'd picked was an older-looking human female. He tossed the table aside and stalked towards the tall woman.
On the other side of the room, the Slayer was very efficiently hammering the Fyarl demon into hamburger.
In front of the bar, the second demon leaped upwards, twirling around in midair, bringing his fist around in an arc aimed at the tall woman's head. The bartender had seen that move before, and it was always
a finishing blow. The redhead was going to get her skull caved in.
Except that she wasn't there. As the demon went up, she sidestepped and pivoted. As he came down again, her left fist cannoned into his groin, and her right hand snagged his swinging fist and yanked downwards. The leaping spinning roundhouse turned into a kind of aerial doubletwisting somersault, which ended with the demon faceplanting hard into the edge of the bar.
He went down onto all fours, blood streaming from a shattered nose and vomit spewing from his mouth. The bartender thought that a human would have died
from an impact like that, but demons were harder to kill.
As the creature pulled himself back to his feet, the woman snagged a bottle off of the bartop and smashed it across his head. He went down again, but he obviously wasn't going to stay there. She looked at the bartender and jerked her head to the side. He saw the jagged stump of the bottle in her hand and knew what would happen next; He moved to the side as she drove the knifelike shards into the demon's throat. Purple blood spurted across the bar and splashed against the wall where he had been standing.
He spent a few seconds taking in the scene. The place was trashed, with furniture in pieces, dead demons already crumbling or liquefying, the Slayer in the back rising from the mangled corpse of the Fyarl, and armed men pointing their strange weapons at the doors, or at him. The jukebox was still playing.
The tall redhead was looking at him like he was next in line for something, and those green eyes were the scariest things he'd seen all year; maybe ever.
"Excuse me, Ma'am, but are you from California ?" he enquired.
She smiled with one side of her mouth. "Hardly; ...why do you ask ?" she replied.
"No reason," he said, "just a thought."
More like a lyric, because he could hear it in the background. "...And everybody's saying that there's nobody meaner,
than the little old lady from Pasadena ..."*
*For anyone who doesn't recognize it, "The Little Old Lady from Pasadena" is by the Beach Boys.