I suppose you could say I’m part of an organization. But then again, other than the no salary part, you can’t really quit either. It’s like the mob, once you’re in, the only way out is death. Or insanity. Then again, it really isn’t the organization that’s the problem. Hell, this organization is probably the only real thing that keeps me sane.

So maybe organization isn’t exactly the right way to describe things. I could call my problem a lifestyle choice. But, again, with the mob reference. I never really realized it was a choice at all until it’s too late. Once you know about this lifestyle, you’re in it…and there’s no turning back. It’s all my sister’s fault since she introduced me to this world.

Anyway, I could narrate the entire history of the existence of my strange ‘lifestyle’ choice but I would digress from ‘anti-recruitment day’.

Basically, I belong to a company called Cathedral Incorporated. This would be my so-called organization. On the surface, we run a private investigation cum charity operation but most of our clients often rely on our other skills for various purposes. At sunset, our projects revolve on inter- and intra-cathedrian matters that are not so uncommonly similar projects to those that our clients usually request. But hey, people all over the world can organize themselves in organizations relating to any activity so it’s not really a big deal. What’s a big deal is the presence of other ‘organizations’ which share our ‘lifestyle’ choices. And some of these ‘organizations’ have recruitment policies. That is, to bring in more people into our world. Which is a bad thing for both us and the newcomers.

Hence, ‘anti-recruitment’ day.

Generally, the plan was simple enough-we go out…mingle a little and look for trouble. Unfortunately, we aren’t able to tell who will be trouble. While there’s a database being compiled with information on other organizations, the same could be said for our enemy. So really, out in the field it’s more of a wing-it situation. Most patrols usually just end up being Saturday night happy hours with my friends so I’m not complaining. Occasionally, there’ll be a fight or two. It keeps things interesting and even more fun. Again, not complaining. See, I don’t really need to get paid to do this.

Today I was flying solo because it was a friend’s birthday. I’ve known Stephanie since I was twelve. We were in the same class and I regularly blocked her view with my big head. Or so she claims. Ten years later, we’ve both grown our separate ways (and lifestyles) but always seemed to get each other’s birthday invitations. Not that I celebrate my birthday.

Steph’s birthdays are always big events and she invited nearly all her friends. This included pretty much just about everyone in our class. Yep, she was the one who was good at making friends. Me? I usually sat in a corner with a book.

Her party was in a club with more sofas than dance floors. Probably done on purpose I guess. There were many groups of people around-her college friends, her colleagues, her family…and us.

We’re in the ‘school friends’ category. Classmates and best friends all clumped together around a tiny coffee table that was littered with peanut shells. There was me, Steph, Ava and Emily, my close group of girlfriends. Dean, Philip and Jason were the three musketeers. Then there's two dozen more people who were invited but I'm not close to them so I don't feel obligated to list them. We girls were on the long couch while the guys had individual seats and the floor. Each year, Steph’s birthday was like a little school reunion. There was much gossip to catch up on.

The conversation was on cars when there was a commotion at the bar. One of Steph’s friends had failed to hit on a girl and was going to get hit by more friends. I didn’t know either one of them so it meant they weren’t from our class.

Personally, I think there was too much alcohol involved. We were seated across the room from the bar so we couldn’t hear a thing but it didn't take a genius to figure out that someone was baiting the scrawny guy. Hell, from where I sat I could see his face turn red…and not all of it was from alcohol.

Steph got up and went over to settle the commotion. After all, it was her party. So the group of us followed. No one likes to stay sitting on the couch when they can get first row seats to a fight anyway.

By the time we reached the bar, both sides were swearing and cursing like no tomorrow and neither wanted to give in to Steph’s pleas. She looked at us worriedly and I rolled my eyes and gave her a “men” look. She smiled. Although admittedly, she might have been smiling at Dean, not me.

Dean was always the biggest guy in our class. Even at sixteen he was a head taller than most of the other guys our age. I don’t even reach his shoulder. It's hell annoying since I’m pretty much vertically challenged.

Dean was also the class troublemaker. Teenage bad boys fall under a few categories. There are guys who are bad ass rebels, some who are just mischievous, and then there are those in between who always seem to be in trouble. Dean fit the last bill. He never really cared about what other people thought about him and had more than his fair share of the mischievous streak, but mostly he just did stupid things because he felt like it or to annoy people. Occasionally, trouble just seemed to gravitate towards him even without him intending it.

Now grown up, Dean had just recently come out from some police academy. Yup, the bad boy was now a cop. My mind still can’t resolve this little tidbit. I give it a year at most before his fellow officers’ lock him up…but then again, he’s gotten a lot mellower since school.

Dean was doing his cop thing as he stepped forward, talking reasonably to the guys. But with most people around us chanting “FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT”, he was on the losing side. At least Steph had the sense to gravitate back to our group as the first punch was thrown.

I didn’t actually see who landed the first shot. One second there were flying insults and the next all fists. Like all fights, more people came to help and ended up joining the fray then trying to get out of it. The whole affair was a bloody mess. Someone grabbed my arm and I nearly screamed but it was just Dean. I was in front with Steph and he dragged me backwards so our group got out of the crossfire. He didn’t stop until we were back at our seats.

Dean was telling Jason, his best friend, to call the cops. Then he turned and went back towards the fight.

I got up and followed him, because Steph had my arm in custody and was crying buckets. I’d rather pry myself off her than comfort a hysterical birthday girl. I know that sounds worse than it really is…but the truth is, I’m not a people person. Let alone an emo people person. It makes me really uncomfortable and joining the fight would be preferable to sitting there the whole night with her on my arm.

We reached the fight. Dean saw me behind him and motioned me back to the group. I shook my head. This may not be the kind of trouble I was looking for, but it still fit my job description. Well, much better than comforting Steph anyway.

I should have mentioned this sooner, but none of my ex-classmates knows about my profession. It’s one of those alter-ego things. A totally different life.

This explains why Dean was yelling at me as he walked over, “What the hell do you think…”
 

He was cut off because two guys, who were wrestling, slammed into him, taking all three to the floor. Dean was pinned under a scrawny guy who was pinned by Rambo in jeans. I saw him take another random punch as he tried to get to his feet but with two guys on top of him, it seemed unlikely he would succeed.

At this point Rambo was punching Scrawny repeatedly and I bent to squat beside him. I poked him in the shoulder a couple of times while pointing at Dean and giving my best innocent-pleading girl face. Rambo then dragged Scrawny off Dean and resumed his punching.

I offered Dean my hand which he pointedly ignored as he got to his feet, "You're crazy...you almost got me killed! I'm trying to stop the damm fight."

"Well, you're welcome. And in case you haven't noticed this fight is not going to stop anytime soon. It's not my fault you're a feeder."

"FEEDER?" He yelled, "Where the hell did you learn that word? If anyone is a feeder its YOU!!!"

"Am not." A feeder is usually a term reserved to gamers who die a lot. It's kind of a paradox where I work, since feeder is a term we use often and endearingly. I suppose I should have picked a better term for the situation but old habits die hard. It then occurred to me to question how Dean knew the term...the guy didn't seem like the gaming type.
 

"Go back to the couch. The police should be here soon and it's only going to get more messy."
 

Evidently, he saw that I was about to argue because his face turned slightly red, "Stop encouraging mayhem and go over...LOOK at this guy. His face is a fucking mess and you're letting him get whacked."
 

Dean had pulled Rambo off Scrawny and the bugger still kept insulting Rambo. Frankly, I thought he deserved to get whacked. It's one thing to be rejected, another to ruin a good party. Some people just didn't have enough manners. Also, I think Rambo's the girl's boyfriend. Scrawny had gotten to his feet and continued taunting Rambo who was in Dean's arm-lock. I didn't think Dean could hold him that long though so I considered my options. I could talk to Scrawny or hold him back but neither was likely to work. I could punch him out cold but that would mess up his face even more. That pretty much left the last option of getting Scrawny as far as possible from Rambo.
 

I grabbed Scrawny by his shirt and threw him towards the door. He was lighter than I expected so although I didn't use as much strength as I could have, the momentum sent him barreling towards the wall. There was a crash as he toppled a table and sent glasses crashing to the floor. Oops.
 

***

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