Awww Scrap

[Leo]

Planet Houston, Texas --- September 23, 829 A.S.

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An older gentleman walked into the small hotel and gently closed the door. He tossed a stuffed duffel bag onto the nearby couch and collapsed into the opposite side. Slowly, he sank into the cushions with his eyes closed and head leaned back on the rear cushion.

"Too much damn work." he mumbled under his breath. His communicator vibrated as if in response. The man groaned and picked it up. "What." he spat.

"Smugg." the voice on the other end rasped.

"I told you, I retired that name when I left the Congress." the man growled.

"Right, sorry...James. Listen, we've got another requisition request here. Premium Scrap to Gamma...and another to...Gran Canaria? The hell?"

"Put a pin in it for tomorrow. I've been running myself ragged with up keep in Texas. Give me like..." the man checked his watch, squinting at the digital read out. "...five hours. I'll be back 'on the road' so to speak in the Anamnesis with a haul to our Corsair friends. Until then, piss off and let me sleep."

He hit the end call button before the man on the other end could answer.

He'd started up a small scrapping company after his retirement from the Congress. It wasn't much, but it was honest work and fairly profitable to boot. Every now and then, he would have to use his contacts with certain factions and groups to keep the wheels greased, so to speak, but for the most part he was left alone. Gallia and Kusari were still technically off limits...but he'd go there to collect Military Salvage when he could for delivery to his clientele which included some of the more seedier parts of Sirius.

"I'm getting too old for this shit. Wonder if I should retire in a few years."

Eventually, he fell asleep, his snores echoing off the walls of his small hotel on Planet Houston.

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You fear oblivion. Yet you forget. The universe remembers every atom of your being. Even dust hums your name in the dark.
Roleplay is dead. Long live Powertraders and PvP I guess.