Big Damn Hero

3

Man, them two are sore losers, Jayne thought, downing the last of his beer. The brews at Taggart’s were right tangy. War’s been over for years. What’s their beef? He thought about finishing off Mal’s drink as well since it was sitting right there in front of him and Mal wasn’t. He guessed Mal would be a mite sore if he came back and his glass was empty, so he let it be.

The singing and dancing showed no sign of abating. Jayne opened his mouth to join in, caught Zoë’s glare, and thought the better of it.

“Browncoats bombed the hell outta my village rather’n let the Alliance save it!” a tall drunk yelled nearby.

Jayne could see how something like that would piss people off. Way he figured it, the rebels were lawless and disorganized; their only real purpose was to make a mess of things. The Alliance had overcompensated for that, sure, ’cause they had had the sticks up their behinds like they did now, but the Browncoats hadn’t been no angels neither. Leastwise, that’s what he’d heard. He hadn’t taken sides during the war. He’d basically robbed soldiers on both sides of it. Neutrality was profitable.

“Killed my cattle so’s I wouldn’t provision the Alliance!” the drunk bellowed.

To everyone else in the room, Zoë looked calm as a Buddha as she sipped at her drink and studied the crowd. But Jayne knew her pretty well. Well enough to recognize a slow burn when he saw it. She was getting mad.

He wondered whether things were going to get entertaining after all.

“I got these here missing fingers on account of Browncoats!” the offended citizen raved on, spraying his closest audience members with a mist of saliva on the final, sibilant “s.” He held up a hand that was good for hitchhiking and picking his nose with but not a lot else. “They said”—more spray—“they was fighting for the common man but you know they was just a bunch of gŏu shĭ!” Yet more spray. “Tip over a rock and you’d find one of them with his hand out, threatening to kill your whole family if you didn’t pay him off.”

If Jayne had known the Browncoats were so enterprising, he might have joined them.

“Yeah,” another man chimed in, “or they’d wipe out your whole family if you didn’t agree to let ’em stash their weapons in your root cellar.”

Zoë’s lips were compressed so tight, the color had started to drain out of them. Jayne sat back and laced his fingers behind his head, watching her shift uncomfortably in her chair. Was she going to snap? No. Zoë wasn’t like Mal. She never started a fight. That wasn’t to say she wasn’t real good at ending them, though.

“All this anti-Independent talk gettin’ to you, huh?” Jayne commented.

“Nope,” Zoë said.

Jayne knew a lie when he heard one too. “Must sting like a sumbitch. Wouldn’t be surprised if you lashed out.”

“Unlike some of us, I have self-control.”

“Sure, sure.”

A guy in a patched Alliance jacket and an abnormally large forehead staggered towards their table. “Hey, you two, you hearing what they’re saying about those murdering Browncoat bastards?” he demanded.

“Yeah, I’m hearing it,” Jayne said amiably.

“Yeah, and listen to this…” Large Forehead began. He paused, swaying back and forth like a reed in a breeze, his eyes narrowing as he studied Jayne. “Hey, Earl,” he shouted over his shoulder, “come over here and look at this clown hat!”

Jayne blinked. “Huh?” he said, fingers still supporting the back of his skull.

The guy called Earl staggered up to the table. “Well, I’ll be…! You’re right, Mitch. That is one ugly-ass chapeau.” To Jayne he said, “Don’t suppose you’d mind removing that abomination from your head, hoss? To avoid upsetting those of us with delicate stomachs.”

Jayne’s frozen grin rapidly melted away.

“I can’t decide whether that contraption makes me want to laugh or throw up,” said Large Forehead, a.k.a. Mitch.

Several people within earshot chortled merrily. “All this anti-hat talk gettin’ to you, huh?” said Zoë.

“Yup,” Jayne said.

“Stay cool. We’re not here for this. Low profile.”

Drunken louts at the surrounding tables rose awkwardly from their seats, pushing in closer to take a gander for themselves. Pointing at the hat which Jayne’s dear mother had made him with her own two hands, they roared with laughter.

This was becoming too much for Jayne. He let his arms drop to his sides, uncoiling like a snake.

“Take it easy, Jayne,” Zoë warned. “I mean it.”

Unfortunately, Mitch overheard the caution. “His name’s Jayne!” he hollered to the throng. “Can you believe it, this witless moron’s name is Jayne! And li’l Jaynie is wearing a baby hat!”

The crowd of maybe a dozen bar patrons pressed in even tighter, with more moving in behind them, filling in the vacated space.

“She’s probably wearing a baby diaper, too,” Mitch cried in delight. Flattening both hands on their table, he leaned forward and slurred into Jayne’s face, “Want us to change it for you, Li’l Jaynie?”

Jayne glowered at him. “No one mocks my mother,” he snarled, and began to rise.

Zoë rolled her eyes. Matters were about to get out of hand, and there was nothing she or anyone could do to prevent it.