Den of the damned

[TFinnegan]

*THUNK!*
The door flies open, a treadbare combat boot it's impetus.

*Whoosh!*
Wind whips through the now opened door, flaring the Clan Gordon tartan kilt on the 6'3" blond mohawked Scottsman standing in the door, sawed-off double barrel shotgun over his shoulder.

*clunk, clunk. clunk, clunk*
Two forms step up behind the imposing figure standing roughly akimbo in the door. The steely glint of firearms, hanging loosely in thier hands, dances in the swirling dust blowing in the door.

"Oy! Name's Finnegan, Tim bloody Finnegan. Someone said there was a party?"

He strides in, motioning at his men to follow.

"An close the bleedin' door, Murph."

He slams a stack of C-bills bigger than his fist on the bar, leans over and grabs the tender by the shirt.

"An ye jus' keep it blinkin' flowin', or I'll toss ye a 3,6,9. We clear lad?"

Still holding the barista off his feet, he looks at the other occupants of the room without turning his head, and says, grinning evilly...

"Tha's three doctors, six nurses, and nine months to pry my boot outta yer arse. If ye wondered..."

Releasing the bartender, he slides his shotgun into the baldric on his back.

"Three pints fer me n' me lads. An' wheskey fer the two slackjaws there. They look like they could use it. Tense blighters, eh?"

Finn grins, crossing his arms.

"So... I hear you're lookin' fer hardarses....I may know a few...."

---