No way was he going to wait to get in.
Even if he did, the bouncers would keep him out on the basis of dress code alone. Were he simply out for a night on the town, Omar would’ve gone home, cleaned up, and come back with a little “entrance tip” for the bouncers. But this was different. It was about Monica Asbur: his fiancée and the love of his life. She was inside the club and a lot of bad folks were looking to kill her – or worse – because of him.
Omar rushed over to the bouncers and drew his badge, which he wore on a chain underneath his blue shirt.
“Detective Omar Trinns, Homicide,” he announced with a no-nonsense cop tone. “I need to talk to one of your staff.”
The two bouncers chuckled at the same time as they folded their massive arms.
“You must be the fifth motherfucker to flash a badge at us this month,” said the bouncer on the left.
“And none of the other four were cops,” said the bouncer on the right.
As tempted as he was to show them his police-issued ID card, or perhaps his Glock, Omar just didn’t have time for this.
“Well,” Omar defiantly replied. “I’m gonna be the first one you let in.”
Their grins went away. The bouncers unfolded their arms and stepped up, ready to fight. Combined, they weighed over five hundred pounds and towered over Omar. The closest patrons whispered amongst themselves in anticipation of a one-sided beat down.
“Oh really?” Asked the bouncer on the left. “And just how’re you gonna do —?”
Omar interrupted the bouncer on the left with a triple-tap of punches to the groin, right floating rib and left jaw. Then he stepped aside to let the bigger man fall. The bouncer on the left was unconscious before he hit the asphalt. The bouncer on the right rushed in and threw a heavy right roundhouse. Omar ducked under the punch, gave him a quick uppercut to his chin, and then dealt him a quick knee to the groin. As the bouncer doubled over with a grunt of pain, the cop stepped in very close, wrapped both hands around the back of the larger man’s neck and then gave him a vicious head butt to the nose.
Witnesses cringed as the larger man fell backwards with a severely broken nose. Omar gave the dazed man a guilty glance, checked his watch, and then headed for the door. Some of the assembled crowd of waiting patrons cheered. Others even cut in line and rushed inside. He simply tossed a twenty to the frightened lady behind the register and ran into the club. Omar cringed under the super-loud torrent of profanity-laced hip-hop as his keen brown eyes took in the scene.
The place was packed with a few hundred people, most of whom were on the dance floor. He headed to the second floor to get a better view.
“Where are you, baby?!” Omar muttered to himself as he reached the top of the stairs and waded through a sea of people on the second level.
Finally, his eyes landed on her.
Monica Asbur: the gal of his dreams. To his surprise, she was on the second floor, instead of the first-level bar section. At twenty-seven, she was tall, voluptuous and gorgeous – all in one sweet package. Tonight, she wore a tight red mini-skirt that both accentuated her perfect curves and those long, caramel-colored legs. Then there were the intangibles that drew Omar in. She was kind, intelligent, funny, and patient. Her patience was what he liked best, seeing as he was out fighting crime when he’d rather be home with her.
Then it hit him.
She was sitting in a corner of the club in the VIP section, surrounded by burly men in high-priced thug wear and jewelry. Monica told him that she worked here as a bartender. But tonight she was dressed more like a “ho” on someone else’s expense account. Monica was supposed to be a struggling law school student. But right now, she sported expensive jewelry that he sure as hell didn’t give her – minus the engagement ring he put on her finger last winter.
He’d worry about that later. Right now, Monica was in trouble and didn’t even know it. On impulse, Omar checked his watch again. The cop briefly turned toward the front entrance and muttered a curse. A pack of five pissed-off bouncers had gathered and were spreading out. Fingers on their headsets, they were undoubtedly looking for him.
As he turned back toward his fiancée, Omar froze in his tracks. A handsome, skinny black guy was now with her. Almost Omar’s height, he wore really expensive clothes and looked familiar. He was someone famous … Black Noyze: multi-platinum rapper extraordinaire. Omar loved his CDs. Apparently, Monica loved making out with him. The cop’s heart fell as he watched them trade spit less than twenty feet away. Amidst the shock, he could only stare.
“There he is!” A voice yelled from behind Omar. “Beat his ass!”
Omar spun around just in time for two huge bouncers to tackle him like an unwary quarterback. In spite of their combined weight, the cop didn’t budge one single inch.
And that’s when Omar lost his cool.
He right-handedly swatted one of the bouncers aside like he was a tennis ball. The poor man’s screaming flight abruptly ended as his back connected with a nearby wall. Glasses dropped, bodies collided, and people screamed. The second bouncer tried to wrestle him to the floor. With both hands, Omar easily broke the man’s grip. Then he tossed the bouncer over the second-floor railing as if he was a stuffed toy. The poor big man flailed and screamed as he crashed into the crowd below.
As of that moment, Omar officially found himself in an unpleasant moral dilemma. It wasn’t easy being a cop, super hero, and loyal fiancée at the same time. His powers were technologically granted by a suit of alien nano-armor and could be passed on to someone else, which he planned to do after the wedding. The suit itself was sentient and had actually half-trained Omar on how to use it. But the cop had simply grown tired of the burden of being Philly’s only costumed vigilante.
With a scowl, he headed over to Monica’s table.
Scared partygoers got out of Omar’s way as Black Noyze’s entourage drew handguns and pointed them at the hero cop. Black Noyze himself wasn’t packing. He was still on probation after a minor “incident” in a Miami night club, last fall. Monica clung to the rapper and shouted something over the music. Omar couldn’t read lips, but he was fairly certain that she said something like: “Please don’t hurt him!”
The vigilante sneered, because he knew that they couldn’t. One of the entourage stepped into Omar’s path and jammed a Glock 9-mil against his forehead. The trembling thug had the gun knocked out of his hand and then took an open-palmed strike to the sternum. Then, to add insult to injury, Omar ended up using the wheezing thug as a human shield while he drew his own Glock. Almost instinctively, he pointed it at Monica and cocked the hammer with a snarl. She began to scream hysterically. The thought of emptying the clip into her perfect face was almost too much for Omar to resist.
The rest of Black Noyze’s entourage hesitated, unwilling to risk shooting one of their own. Omar didn’t care if they shot him. The nano-armor was inside his skin, which made him more than bulletproof. If he wanted to, Omar could conjure up enough weapons and explosives to wipe out this entire fucking place…
But then Omar took a deep breath and remembered that he wasn’t a killer. He was a hero: a good man having a really bad day. He slowly lowered the gun as his human shield continued to gasp for air.
Suddenly, the front entrance was blown inward in a cascade of concrete, ice shards, and billowing blue fog. A pair of frozen bouncers was thrown a few feet past the fog. Their corpses shattered like bloody glass as they hit the floor.
Then IceShadow made her entrance.
Her dark-blue face had a heartless, elven-like beauty to it. Her raging blue eyes glowed through strands of her black hair, which were tangled by the cold