Takin' all this into consideration, I am devotin' the majority of my attention as we travel to stretchin' and prep-pin' my muscles, as well as updatin' the maintenance on my travelin' weaponry, honin' and oilin' as necessary. As I have noted before, a large part of bein' a peace-lovin' individual consists of bein' willin' and able to quash any trouble as soon as it starts, if not a little before.
When we arrives at the rendezvous, we all experience some surprise to find that we are the only ones there. That is to say, Pookie and Spyder are surprised that the Army types is not present, while I am surprised that they are surprised. Judgin' from my own limited military-type service, which Spyder was a part of, when assigned to some lame duty like garrison or tax collection and in the absence of any officer-types, it is unlikely at best that any soldier worth his or her salt will remain at the barracks or bivouac if there is anything at all more interestin' in the immediate vicinity.
In our case, it had been a dubious establishment called Abdul's Sushi Bar and Bait Shop. With minimal searchin' and inquirin', we discovered the hangout of the Army types we was supposed to be redezvousin' with. It was a bedraggled-lookin' place called the Tiki Lounge, which was decorated on the outside with dead brash and carved logs in a half-hearted effort to give it the appearance of a grass hut. To my practiced eye, it was obvious that some fire inspector's palm had been heavily greased to have approved something that gave every appearance of bein' a bonfire waitin' for the first torch. I also notices that the place has very few windows, and that the ones it does have are painted over black.
"Um, maybe we should wait until it's dark," I sez.
"What for?" Pookie sez.
"Oh, just a thought," I sez.
"Well," sez Spyder, startin' for the door, "I don't see any reason why we shouldn't get started right now."
"Just a second," I sez, shuttin' my right eye and holdin' my hand flat against it. "I think I got something in my eye."
They fidgets a bit, but wait sort of patiently while I counts to a hundred.
"Okay. Let's go," I sez at last, still holdin' my hand against my eye. "After you, ladies."
I hold the door for them as they enter, then follow them in. As I do, I drop my hand, open my right eye and close the left one.
This is, of course, an old trick. When movin' from a light area to a dark one, it takes a few moments for the eyes to adjust to the change in light. Those few moments can be extremely dangerous if there are potential hostiles in the area you are enterin' whose eyes are already accustomed to that lighting condition. To counter this, it is wise, if one has the time, to allow one eye, preferably one's dominant shootin' eye, to pre-adjust prior to makin' one's entrance. It may only make a little difference, but sometimes that small difference can save one's life.
Anyway, I slides inside and step sideways (so's I won't be silhouetted by the door before it closes) and scopes the place out. It is dark, as the painted-over windows had indicated, lit only by candles flickerin' on the low tables on the main floor and along the bar. There is a small group of locals clustered around a table in the corner, but I pay them little attention. Instead, I focuses on the dozen or so Army types hangin' on the bar and sprawled at nearby tables.
As near as I can tell, they is all low-level rankers without an officer or even a non-com amongst them. This also means they are relaxed and happy as only off-duty army types can be. It looks like they was all talkin' and drinkin' and playin' cards before we came in, which is to say simply enjoyin' each other's company. That was before we came in. Now, to a man, they are all focused on Spyder. Remember how I mentioned that Pookie had been ex-perimentin' with changin' Spyder's looks by usin' her disguise spell? Well, at the moment the outfit Spyder is wearin' bears only a passin' resemblance to the army's normal uniform. I believe I described said uniform back when Nunzio and me signed on for our brief stint in the Army, but for those of youse who have short memories, or, perhaps, have neglected to purchase that particular volume, I will reiterate. Basically, you have a short-sleeved flannel nightshirt, covered by a breastplate and skirt made of hardened leather, said skirt consistin' of multiple strips hangin' down from the waist. Sandals, a helmet, and a short sword complete the ensemble. All in all, it is designed to take an average wimp or pot-bellied draftee and make them look like a formidable fightin' machine. This is, of course, not how it looks on Spyder. First off, the flannel nightshirt has disappeared completely. The skirt is now noticeably shorter, like about halfway up her thighs, and is riding precariously on her hips rather than snug around her waist. Just in case this latter adaptation escapes the notice, it is emphasized by a noticeable reduction in the breastplate to a point where it not only leaves a wide stretch of her midsection exposed, it is barely large enough to qualify for its name.
The overall effect would qualify her for the centerfold of an Army-type magazine ... if they had such things in this dimension. All she'd need would be a staple in her navel.
There is several long beats of utter silence as the room drinks in this vision. Then Spyder breaks the spell by openin' her mouth.
"Could you gentlemen direct me to the person in charge?" she purrs in a husky, tuck-me-in voice.
"Well, I'll tell you, Sweetheart," sez one brawny individual sprawled at a nearby table. "The Sarge isn't here right now, but if you want to wait for him, you can sit on my lap."
He gives a big, exaggerated wink to the other Army types in the room, who respond by eruptin' in guffaws and wolf whistles.
Spyder starts to turn red, which to those of us who know her definitely does not mean she is gettin' embarrassed. Rather, it is clear that we is about one step short of a full-blown donnybrook.
Unfortunately, someone thinks it is a good idea to take that step. One of the Army types sittin' directly behind Spyder decided to get cute by liftin' up the back of her skirt to try to peek under it.
Now, disguise spell or not, what's under it is still Spyder. Instead of givin' out a girlish squeal or tryin' to hold her skirt down, she simply pivots around and nails the guy with an overhand power punch. His seated position puts him lower than her, so she gets her full weight behind the hit with a bit of torque from a hip twist for a bonus. He goes down, not over the back of his chair but with it crumplin' under him, and doesn't twitch.
The laughter stops like a popped balloon as the rest of the Army types gape at their fallen buddy.
"Spyder, dear," sez Pookie, easin' forward, "what did I tell you about how a lady acts?"
"He was asking for it," Spyder growls, still hot under the collar.
'True enough," Pookie sez. "But, you see ..." Without lookin', she comes down with her left hand on the back of an occupied chair, dumpin' the soldier sittin' there on his back. At the same time, her right comes up behind the back of the head of the guy sittin' next to him, slammin' his forehead onto the table. Without a break in her movement, she leans across the table to the other two Army types sittin' there and slaps their heads together hard enough that their eyes cross and they slide to the floor.
"... you can handle situations like this without breaking into a sweat," she finishes. "Needless exertion is not the mark of a real lady."
"I see," Spyder sez, noddin' slowly. "Thanks for the tip, Pookie."
It would be nice if that was enough to settle things, but by my calculations, that was only five out of twelve down, leavin' seven still in good condition. What's more, the survivors were no longer in a playful mood. They are slowly gettin' to their feet with blood in their eyes.