Sol Beaudon shook his head as he sat at the bar, stretching, letting out a yawn, and then pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“What are you drinking, Beau?” asked the bartender.
His name was George Wetzel, and he was part of the alien race known as the Urnfurs, a race that resembled human-animal hybrids; he belonged to a certain ethnicity within that race, known as Dokefins (pronounced Doe-keh-fins) or ‘Dog-men,’ and George resembled an overweight German Shepherd, his hair greying and lightening, a pair of spectacles resting against his eyes.
Beau shrugged, the dark-complexioned thinking to himself as he rubbed the back of his neck.
“Do’ yuh have lemonade?”
The Dog-man laughed, howling as well, as he slammed his human-like fist down onto the counter.
“What kind of a pansy drinks lemonade in a bar?” he asked in his thick southern accent.
“The pretty pink kind.” Said Beau in a sarcastic and mocking tone. “I don’t drink, you idiot.”
George wiped his eyes and nodded, his belly still bouncing as he tried to contain his laughter.
“I know, I know… we don’t have that here though; you want a water or something instead?”
“Whatever, George, just go get it.”
The Dog-man bartender shook his head and turned to walk away as he muttered to himself.
“These silly humans crack me up.”
“Disrespectful mutt.” Said Beau under his breath as he looked back down at the newspaper in front of him.”
“Hey there, Rogue.” Said a tall white man.
Beau turned to see the man standing behind him with two other agents from the Space Riders Universal police force.
“Jack, Telly, Brad…” he nodded once. “to what do I own the honor?”
“Save it you… you… lousy…. Puke.” Said the Jack (the tall white man, who was also rather muscular and fit).
Telly, a short chubby white man with no hair and a babyface, stared up at Beau, who was sitting on a rather tall bar stool. “Yeah, you piece of junk.”
Brad, an average-sized, vein-popping, cartoonish muscle freak smiled through perfect teeth, the smell of his minty breath penetrating Beau’s nostrils as he spoke.
“I say we rip him off that stool and beat him with it.” He laughed.
“That’s… not a… not a bad idea.” Jack agreed.
Beau sighed. “Now boys, all three of you are drunk, and I’m not; how do you think this is gonna go?”
“One way to find out.” Said Jack as he lunged at Beau, both arms outstretched, hands open and ready to grab Beau.
But Beau had anticipated the move, and he leaned back against the bar, gripping it with both hands, and tightened his core, bring his right leg up and kicking the tall man right square in the throat.
Then, Beau launched himself forward, kicking Telly so hard in the chest that it sent him flying backwards and through a nearby wooden table, crumbling it into splinters.
Brad took a big step towards Beau, left arm back, his fist balled up, ready to deliver a devastating punch. But Beau stepped into the man throwing his left arm around his neck and hooking his right under Brad’s left armpit, locking his hands together as he rotated and pivoted his hips and essentially threw Brad over his back and into the bar, knocking him out cold.
He then looked up at a stunned George (the Dog-man bartender) and smiled.
“I’ll take that water to go.”
Appalachian Post 
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