"Come on, we're closed. Time to go." The Manager leaned against the bar. He/she rubbed the bridge of his/her nose. There was always one who didn't want to go home.
Or one group, in this case. There were eight of them, two in the uniform of the Royal Canadian Air Force's Security Division. The taller of the two, a wiry man with side whiskers and the golden bars of a captain on his collar, stood.
"Look here, uh, bub," he growled, "my team 'n' I are on leave. An' we're not goin' anywhere 'till we're good an' ready. We clear?"
More pseudo-Wolverine machismo. Great. As if that Old Wolf trying to start a bar brawl with Sheriff Roberts wasn't enough. "Look, Mr. Wolverine—"
"Logan. My name is Logan. Captain John David Logan."
"Fine," the Manager said, holding his/her head and gently massaging his/her temples. "Look, Captain—I know you and your friends have been here a lot recently, and I know you're getting frustrated with your Writer. You could come back and see him—he'll be here later. Tomorrow," he/she corrected. I can't take this on a Wednesday night. Tomorrow is Writer's Night, Saturday's Dead Night—and Perkolator wants to rent the place on Sunday for Manchild's birthday party. I'm going to go insane.
"Mebbe you didn't hear the Boss," came the rumbling voice of the Café's Bouncer from the dark alcove by the door.
"You gonna give me an ear-exam, bub?"
"Nope. But I don't allow this kind of thing 'round here."
The other man in uniform, a tiny man with sergeant's chevrons and seven five-year service patches on his sleeves, hopped off his stool. "You gonna make us, pal?"
The Bouncer looked nonchalantly down at the three-six man. "Only if you piss me off, stubby."
"Lay off the Sarge, bub. You mess with him, you mess with the whole damn Flight."
"Aye!" growled the russet-bearded giant at the end of the bar, in chorus with his comrades.
The diminutive soldier stepped back from the Bouncer, shaking his head. "Thanks for the support, sir—all of you—but no need here." He looked up at the brutish Bouncer. "You and me are square, eh."
"Can't argue with that," the Bouncer noted.
The Manager couldn't quite suppress his/her sigh of relief as the Canadians stumbled out of the Café. "Thanks. Saved the day again."
"Just doin' what the Scribe pays me for, Boss."
Suddenly, the Cook burst out of the kitchen. "Hey, Boss—what's the deal with this stock order sheet for Sunday? Eight hundred and fifty pounds of coffee? That's a misprint, right?"
"Oooh," the Manager said, rubbing the bridge of his/her nose again. This was going to be a loooooooooooooooong week.
OKAY, TIME TO ROLL THE CREDITS! (dammit, Forge, turn the machine on! They're waiting!)
The Manager, the Bouncer, and the Cook belong, in essence, to themselves—though I'm very proud to have created them.
Captain John David Logan, Sergeant Judd, Saint Elmo, and the rest of the altered Alpha Flight are from my own series, "Alpha Flight Triumphant."
Old Wolf is from Andrea's "Repercussions of the Past" series.
Sheriff Cody Roberts is from Alexandra Nigro's "Stripe of a Different Color."
Rayquan "Perkolator" Morris and Charles "Manchild" Lensherr are from David J. Warner's "Mutants of Bucktown" series, which I only just started reading today and got a H-U-G-E kick out of.
The Scribe belongs, as always, to herself. She may own the Café, but the rest of us can still rent the place from time to time, right?
And Forge belongs to Marvel, poor sucker.
Okay—that's all for this time. Hope you enjoyed it—and come on back now. We got a special on coffee first thing Monday morning . . . .
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