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Operation Reload
May. 18th, 2013 04:09 amFile it:
Operation Reload and there's a cool spring rain coming down at one am in Terminus. Sitting at the Drunken Kilt for the third time this week, primarily due to it being one of the few bars in town stocked steady with Tennessee Honey. Everything's right in the universe as the magic finally starts to hit the blood, when all of a sudden this big old Bubba Mother-Fucker approaches me while the Contact's in the head draining "the world's smallest bladder". Bubba rolls up on the table with the cocky swagger of a bantam weight drunk and has to steady himself to hover over me by gripping the table at our booth.
"So... that your boyfriend or something?" He drawls through a vicious sneer that puffs a bloated cheek buried beneath a scraggly beard.
"No," I respond with a roll of my eyes before draining the last sip of Tennessee Honey, "if she was my boyfriend, she would've kicked your ass by now just for talking to me. She's kind of possessive that way, y'know what I mean? But hey... lucky you, though."
"Whuh?" His shocked livestock gaze attempts to focus on my train of words rattling high over his head without success.
"Yeah, she just might decide to take you home tonight and make a proper woman out of you after all. Satiate all those feminine desires you seem to be harboring..."
"What you trying to say?" He leans in close and confrontational inches from my face. Before I can point out that I'm not the kind of person who 'tries' to say anything, one of his arms is yanked behind his back and a hand slapped across the neck sends his head slamming face first into the table. My glass jumps and though empty I catch it on instinct.
"What'd I tell you about starting trouble in here, Rufus?" Our table's frizzy headed waitress barks into Rufus' ear inching his arm up his spine. Rufus whimpers into the tabletop and mutters something in his OTP brogue. She pulls him back up by the neck, gives it a good squeeze with those hot pink talons of hers, apologizes to me and insists that the next round's on the house before marching old Rufus out the front door to be ejected from the Kilt with a good old kick to the ass salute to boot.
The Contact arrives and slides into the booth across from me. After taking a glance at the commotion outside asks what'd s/he miss.
"The perils of trying to satiate one's curiosity without paying heed to either charm nor consequences."
"Heh." The Contact laughs. "I like that word."
"Which one?"
"'Satiate'." The Contact purrs and takes a sip off a well whiskey with ginger. "You should use that in your, what do you call them again...?"
"Dispatches?"
"Posts." The Contact laughs victoriously at finding the right word.
"Well tell you what." I light a cigarette and puff a crooked halo into the air. "You get me to the Krispy Kreme after last call and I'll post any damn word you want."
"Deal." The Contact toasts before finishing her well whiskey ginger, and before another word can be said a fresh round arrives. On the house, where the rain seems to fall every Friday night around it and no one can hear a drop for the heat of the music blaring off the jukebox.
Operation Reload and there's a cool spring rain coming down at one am in Terminus. Sitting at the Drunken Kilt for the third time this week, primarily due to it being one of the few bars in town stocked steady with Tennessee Honey. Everything's right in the universe as the magic finally starts to hit the blood, when all of a sudden this big old Bubba Mother-Fucker approaches me while the Contact's in the head draining "the world's smallest bladder". Bubba rolls up on the table with the cocky swagger of a bantam weight drunk and has to steady himself to hover over me by gripping the table at our booth.
"So... that your boyfriend or something?" He drawls through a vicious sneer that puffs a bloated cheek buried beneath a scraggly beard.
"No," I respond with a roll of my eyes before draining the last sip of Tennessee Honey, "if she was my boyfriend, she would've kicked your ass by now just for talking to me. She's kind of possessive that way, y'know what I mean? But hey... lucky you, though."
"Whuh?" His shocked livestock gaze attempts to focus on my train of words rattling high over his head without success.
"Yeah, she just might decide to take you home tonight and make a proper woman out of you after all. Satiate all those feminine desires you seem to be harboring..."
"What you trying to say?" He leans in close and confrontational inches from my face. Before I can point out that I'm not the kind of person who 'tries' to say anything, one of his arms is yanked behind his back and a hand slapped across the neck sends his head slamming face first into the table. My glass jumps and though empty I catch it on instinct.
"What'd I tell you about starting trouble in here, Rufus?" Our table's frizzy headed waitress barks into Rufus' ear inching his arm up his spine. Rufus whimpers into the tabletop and mutters something in his OTP brogue. She pulls him back up by the neck, gives it a good squeeze with those hot pink talons of hers, apologizes to me and insists that the next round's on the house before marching old Rufus out the front door to be ejected from the Kilt with a good old kick to the ass salute to boot.
The Contact arrives and slides into the booth across from me. After taking a glance at the commotion outside asks what'd s/he miss.
"The perils of trying to satiate one's curiosity without paying heed to either charm nor consequences."
"Heh." The Contact laughs. "I like that word."
"Which one?"
"'Satiate'." The Contact purrs and takes a sip off a well whiskey with ginger. "You should use that in your, what do you call them again...?"
"Dispatches?"
"Posts." The Contact laughs victoriously at finding the right word.
"Well tell you what." I light a cigarette and puff a crooked halo into the air. "You get me to the Krispy Kreme after last call and I'll post any damn word you want."
"Deal." The Contact toasts before finishing her well whiskey ginger, and before another word can be said a fresh round arrives. On the house, where the rain seems to fall every Friday night around it and no one can hear a drop for the heat of the music blaring off the jukebox.
