The Black Cherry || Blackport 66 's Night Club and Bar

[Enkidu]

Now, that... is what I call a burger. Okay turkey neck, you're off the hook. Guys, It's okay to sit near me, geesh. I don't kill when I'm eating. Apart from that greasy little Kusarian script kiddie nerd in the corner chatting to Sunny there's nobody in here I particularly want to pop. Mohammed's sake, sit down. Calm your bloody tits.

The assorted mix of intercept pilots, freelancers, fighter enthusiasts and mercenaries that had leapt out around her tentatively filtered their way back to the bar. Within a minute, the Cherry was as noisy as it had been, interspaced by the occasional wolf crunches of bread and flesh as Khan burped her way through the largest sandwich she'd enjoyed since the Liberty Navy made manhattan a not-particularly-choice landing site. It was probably five kilos in mass.


Mmh. This crap is orgasmic, yo. Hey, um, you there! Nesrin gestured in the general direction of everywhere, nearly swatting a tattoo artist through a porthole. Obviously Blood Dragon girl. Yeah, the one by the bouncer. You. Get off that crappy, lonely beer-stained seat and get yourself on this one like a champ. She slapped the padding of the stool next to her, digging a handprint the size of a white bear's paw. It looked like she had clawed it. Sit. I'll by you a drink since I can't swig it myself.

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THE SYNDIC LEAGUES
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