On the Crosspath

[Soban]

“Yeah, I can see what Synth Paste has done tae yer waistline. It’s a wonder ye managed tae waddle through the bar door.”
He glanced toward the entrance and flicked his chin in its direction.
“Or did ye have ’em widen it specially for yer grand arrival? Ye look like a beached Whale sprawled there at the counter. An’ by the stars—look at ye, gobblin’ that toast like a fat Bretonian bairn in a sweetie shop.”
He sighed as Burton inhaled the last of the toast as if his life depended on it.
“Anyway. I suppose we’re no’ here tae trade verbal jabs—ye always lose at that, an’ like the sore loser ye are, last time ye shipped me here tae administer this station.”
He knocked back his Scotch in a single pull, then asked:
“Och, d’ye want tae hold this meetin’ here—or shall we find a place a touch more suitable?”