Cosmo Kessler fumbled nervously with the bottle. Despite the permanent engine oil stains on his palms, it was the sweat that made fishing out each capsule of anxiety medication difficult. It also didn't help that he had to scratch furiously at his neck every few seconds - what was he thinking putting that much starch on his collar?
Finally managing to roll out the third pill with his index finger, he shakily popped it into his mouth and washed it down with a bottle of water - taken from his own ship, just in case. Everyone's heard horror stories of hapless pilots at Rochester's bar taking a spiked drink and following a pretty girl into a back room, only to wake up sold into slavery or with their organs harvested. At 63, he wasn't sure how much demand there would be for his labor or his guts, but why else would some woman even entertain the idea of going out for drinks? What's more, he'd personally witnessed her blasting a transport to pieces shortly after he managed to fly off.
This lady is a stone cold killer, but here I am, trying to make an impression and chit-chat.
Catching a glance at his reflection off the chassis of a serving droid, Kessler furtively wiped his hands along the sides of his glass, hoping to get enough condensation to make his receding hairline look a little more presentable.
Maybe I'll smooth talk my way into giving up just one kidney or getting sold to work a plantation. I mean, I'd always thought about retiring and buying a farm. Close enough...
The meds were starting to kick in now. It was the good old stuff from a back-alley doctor on Denver - more potent, from before Cryer caved in under multiple lawsuits and turned them into little more than candy...probably because of all the high-profile politicians and executives who couldn't handle it. Still, he was three doses in and the shaking of his hands had only just begun to stop.
