A careful observer with sensitive instrumentation might have noticed the sudden dip in the background noise of the Gunpowder Regret as the new pilot walked in. She was a short Kusarian woman who could have been anywhere from 20 to 40 years old with a no-nonsense look about her that immediately identified her as a Bounty Hunter. This was lost, however, on several of the bar's more intoxicated patrons, who felt obliged by the situation, to pull the "tough-looking-asshole-annoying-the-girl" routine.
"Hey baby, why don't you come over here and get comfortable," said the tallest one.
The girl, however, was more than happy to play along with the "tough-chick-who-will-kick-your-ass-if-you-dont-get-out-of-my-face" number. With a flourish that seemed to imply some sleight of hand, she pulled out a rugged-looking projectile pistol from the folds of her suit and shoved it in the guy's face. This unmistakable gesture alone sufficed to put an end to the charade. The drunken thugs, sobered up by the sight of the weapon and a glint in the girl's eye that told them she was dying to use it, slinked off toward the furthest corner of the bar.
"You," the girl said to the bartender, using a form of the pronoun so excessively formal that it almost seemed archaic, "please get me some sake. And a cigarette. Thank you."
She turned to the bounty hunter who had been talking to the bartender before the interruption.
"Just another bounty hunter needing a drink. One got away today. As if it wasn't hard enough to get a job," she informed him as calmly and naturally as if his silence and bewildered look had been sufficient to imply the question "Who the hell are you and what is your problem?"
No comments:
Post a Comment