"Kalashnikov's", Zvezdny Gorodok

[Inquisitor Gaunt]

Simon woke up, a pool of drool forming around his mouth and nose. He groaned, sitting up and clutching his head; it felt like he'd just been mortared in the back of his cranium. He part-staggered-part-waddled over to the bar, ordering a jug of water to kill his hangover. That pothead junky was staring at him from across the room. That bugger was lucky that this headache was enough to fell a horse.

Once the tender returned with his drink, he grabbed it by the handle and swigged at it, before wandering over to drop back into the poker game; it seemed winnings had gone from drinks to credits. He pulled out his pay; a thick wad of credits that had lain dormant since he'd join the Coalition. What good was it, after all? He did his work and just lived off what he got from doing that.

He paid his blinds and picked up his next hand as it came through, looking over the table with a pained expression and occaisonally chugging from his jug. Turned out it was pretty easy to get poker-faced when you were so hung-over that your mind was focused on the pain.

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