As he walked away from his Sabre at the dock, he could not help but think to himself how quickly he had learned to enjoy flying it. He sold many a ship to many a “captain,” so they all seemed to call themselves in the Edge Worlds, but now he had a better understanding of why some were in demand more than others – especially those that were best at ending a “captain’s” days at the helm.
Walking into the Blood Money, he met an arm horizontally blocking his path at the door. “Check for weapons,” the security team member muttered as if operating on auto pilot. After a quick pat-down, the guard pulled a small plasma pistol from under the visitor’s jacket. “Bar regulations, sir, this is contraband.”
“Call off your dog, keep, if I meant trouble you would have known.” The bartender gave a quick nod and the arm lowered like a gate.
“I understand, he’s doing his job. I can respect that.” The man pulled up a stool in front of the bar.
“Whiskey.”
“What kind?”
“The kind that burns.”
As the keep filled a small tumbler, he leaned over to the visitor. “This isn’t the kind of bar you want to parade in showing your manhood. You’re not the only one who . . . .”
He paused as the gruff old man motioned a finger at him to come closer. As the keep leaned over, he heard in a whisper,
“If you’re looking for someone who gives a f*** . . .”
Suddenly the keep found himself with a large, veined hand around his throat and a bearded chin in his eye.
“Ask your dog at the door because I have no f***s to give.”
The visitor threw the keep back behind the bar and began a slow draught on his whiskey.
“But business is business.” He laid 100,000 in credits on the bar top. “You do your job, I’ll do mine. It makes the world go ‘round.”
As he made his way to a table in the back corner, he stopped by his other new acquaintance.
“For your troubles, dog. ”
Another 100,000 credits.
Sitting down, he slowly muttered to himself “. . . and business has never been so good.”
