Red-faced and bent at the waist, Mouse had lost whatever aura of power came from his kinship with the Chets. He was diminished, transformed, but to call him defeated would've been a stretch. Hagar glanced to Lot in hopes that their tribal leader would put an end to the scuffle.
No such luck. When he spoke, it was to twist the knife in an open wound. Hagar stepped forward in his place: a hazardous thing on a good day, when Mustang wasn't snarling like a feral thing. "Let's everybody take a deep breath now..." For all that Mouse had been treating the tavern like his own backyard, he wasn't friendless. Fellow Chets had taken to their feet when Mustang delivered her well-aimed kick; if they threw their hats in the ring, this could all spiral quickly out of hand. "Drink on the house still stands, for anyone who's interested."
Mouse spat at her feet. "This ain't over."
To his credit, he did the wise thing and stalked away rather than try to go another round with Mustang. Hagar didn't doubt he meant that parting volley wholeheartedly. She nodded to the other patrons. "Alright, show's over. Who wants a drink?"
No one refused.
"That seemed like the thing to do, huh?" Hagar muttered as she rounded back to the other side of the bar and produced a fresh glass for Mustang. "Ought to start calling you Ferrari, you're so high-strung all the time."