bmblbee (bmblbee) wrote in bloodclaim,

Broken Circle

TITLE: Broken Circle
RATING: Adult for language and content
DISCLAIMER: The Bee has no rights or claim on any
of the characters or products named in this story and makes
no profit from them.
SUMMARY: This is the third story in the Rosebud/verse.
Tara has been abducted and the police rush to find her.
The other members of the Circle decide that they can do
a better job and begin their own investigation.
Who will find her first and will it be in time?


Authors note:
We now start our final 10 chapter countdown. I really appreciate
the readers who have stuck with me and continue to comment.
The Bee loves you all!

Praise and thanks to the wonderful Petxnd for the amazing banner

Like a Mexican jumping bean, the bartender lurched around
the room as quickly as possible removing bottles, shot glasses
and dirty beer mugs from every table and exposed surface in the

He knew from previous experience that when the pool balls and
sticks started flying, the good glassware was the first thing to go.
That and the mirror on the back wall but he didn't think there was
time to put up the plywood.

He then ducked down to check the bottom shelf and make sure that
the baseball bat that he kept hidden there was ready and waiting.
The bright red label on the handle of the Louisville Slugger winked
back reassuringly.
Cautiously, he stood back, tossed his bar towel over his shoulder
and said with a nervous chuckle.

"Ah, come on now guys. You know this fella was just joshin'"

Angel swallowed and looked around at all the eyes that stared holes
in him and considered that perhaps he had gotten off on the wrong foot.
For a quick second, he thought this might be a good time to gulp the
rest of his beer and make a hasty retreat when one of the bikers shooting
pool slammed his mug down on the nearest stool and started walking
slowly toward him.

Angel's line of sight started at the biker's pointy steel toed boots, up
the thick tree trunk thighs, across the bare, overly fur covered chest,
and up to the viscous scowling face. He tried not to stare at the tattoo's
on his arms that screamed "Born to Die" or the swastika carved into
the center of his forehead.

Angel could feel the sweat begin to bead up on his scalp, however,
now was not the time to worry about the humidity durability of your hair
care products.

Hoping to quell the coming storm, the bartender tried to intercede.
"Ha, ha, jokes on you. Come on Bear, the man was just pulling
your leg. He just came in here for a beer and now he has to be going,
don'tcha mister?"

At this point Angel consider a tactical retreat to be the best strategy
in his campaign to live through the night and he slid down off the stool.
Bear took one more step forward, blocking his escape and standing
nose to nose with the narc hopeful.

"Now why would a whitebread shit hole like you come in to our
high class establishment and accuse us hard workin' folk of selling drugs?
You saying we look like a bunch of druggies? What do you guys think?
I think whitebread here has just disrespected our asses."

Angel glanced over Bear's shoulder to see five more equally inked
gentlemen looming forward in a manner that did not give the impression
he was about to be welcomed into the bosom of their loving arms.

Throwing his hands up, Angel leaned his back against the bar.
"Hey, waitaminute. Look, I musta got some bad information. I can
tell you are certainly not the type of men who would indulge in
narcotic use and abuse. I'll bet it was the OTHER Whitey's. You know,
the one across town. Yeah that's it. Well I better go."

Bear made no move to allow Angel to pass. Instead, He slowly reached
into his leather vest and pulled out a fat, neatly rolled joint which
with great flourish, he placed between his lips and lit.

Angel's eyes bugged and his mouth fell open. He had never actually
been up close and personal with an illicit marijuana cigarette.
He had been absent the day the police academy reviewed the
chapter entitled "Canibus, south of the border crab grass"

Bear tipped his head back and took a deep suck on the joint that he
pinched between his dirty fat fingers. After holding it in his lungs for
a few seconds, he unexpectedly leaned forward and blew a shotgun
straight into Angel's mouth.

Shocked, Angel gasp and sucked the second hand smoke straight into
his lungs, coughing and choking as he did. The room exploded in

"What do you guys think? Should we let him go?"

"Fuck no!"
The answering roar was unanimous. Immediately over a dozen huge,
sweaty, dentally challenged skin heads charged forward, lunging at
Angel who had thrown his arms over his head and split the air with a
piercing, unmanly scream.

Lindsey had been watching the whole scene play out from his corner
table with Rug. He had been praying that he would not have to make
the decision between blowing his cover to save the idiot or sitting by
and watching him die.
Up to now, it had been a toss up.

Just as his conscience got the best of him and he knew he would have
to intervien, a gunshot exploded behind him.

The reaction of the thugs in the room was instantaneous. A collective
grunt rang out as everyone, Angel included, hit the floor, the smell
of gun powder filling the air like a cloud of poisonous gas.

A shroud of silence fell over the mob.
Lindsey spun around to see Rug cheerfully waving around the biggest
357 he had ever seen and some little voice in the back of his brain
ask, 'Where the fuck does he hide that in those tight leather pants?'

Before he had the chance to ask, not that he would, the bartender
popped his head out from behind the bar, the stick of wood gripped
tightly in his hand.
"God damn it all, Rug. I told you about shootin' up my ceiling."

Lindsey automatically looked up. The cheap drywall above them was
riddled with holes and despite the seriousness of the situation, Lindsey
had to grin.

The other's, when they realized the game was temporarily over, hoisted
themselves happily back to their feet, Angel apparently forgotten, and
returned to their pool tables, drinks, and corner dice toss. They could
all feel the spark of excitement. They knew the night wasn't over.

Rug slammed his gun down in the center of their table and scratched his
big overhang of hairy belly, pausing to pluck a wad of something
suspicious from his belly button.

"Sit tight, Hoot. I do believe you got yourself a new customer."
Rug hocked a lugie to the floor and sauntered over to the bar where he
threw his fleshy arm around Angel's very surprised shoulder.
"Don't pay no mind to them boys. They's innocent. Just havein' a bit 'o
fun at yer expense. So, you interested in makin' a buy? Well, this is
your lucky night. See that cowboy over there?"

Angel squinted into the darkness and nearly gasp at the sexual, handsome,
creature that lounged there. Despite the danger of the situation around him
all Angel could think was.
'Holy fuck! A real cowboy! I sure wouldn't mind stearing my ass
around that piece of fence post."

Before he could stop it, an nervous giggle slipped out at his play on words.
Immediately he checked himself and resumed his character.

"Oh, yeah, I wouldn't mind buying a little of what he's selling. JOINTS! I
mean funny smokes, that's what I meant. That's all I want from him."

Rug frowned. Was the man a retard? Rug didn't like selling to no retard.
He had a younger brother that was a few drumsticks short of a Kentucky
bucket. Still, this was the final test for old Hoot Gibson over there and Rug
wanted to make sure.
"So, what you thinking? Maybe a dime bag?"

Angel really hadn't given that part much thought. What did marijuana cost?
Was that cheap? He didn't want to be taken advantage of.
"Well, a dime doesn't seem like it would be very much, how about $10's

Rug tossed his head back and whooped, slapping Angel on the back.
"I like you. You're one of them fuckin' funny comedians ya see on
Leno. I like Leno. You're o.k. Come on. I think Hoot over there
has just what you need."

Angel was sure he did.

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