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- Eddies
- 130
It was a quiet day at... wherever this was.
Where was this exactly? Shit. Mulligan didn't know, and didn't care, beyond His Jurisdiction. The beer was passable, and people were leaving him alone. That's the excuse, of course. He's here for work. Namely, someone's gonna try and make this shithole a little less peaceful. That... won't fly.
See, there's a perception of order to be maintained out here, he supposed, checking the remaining booze in the can with a swill and a squint, like an alchemist turning hops into an elixir that gives eternal life to bad habits. Yeah. A perception of order. Fuck up a few tourist campers? Ah, nobody'll miss 'em. But a drinking-hole like this is what keeps a lot of residents sane, he imagined, or at least distracted enough not to create more fuckin' problems. There were enough problems, and never enough beer, some might say. Mulligan, at first, just liked the free beer. But any cascades? Not a fan, not a fan at all of that concept. So this shithole he couldn't remember the name of, on the corner of Sand and More Sand, he'd keep clean.
He reclined in his chair, snapping the beer-tab off his latest empty, before sitting up normally. With a flick of the thumb, he sent it across the room in the direction of the trashcan.
Hook, line, and... you know the rest. He grinned in such a way that let slip the weight of the darkness in his soul; nary a fucking feather. This was the life, he thought, humming along to the radio as it played. Relax, recline, kill three guys tops, score a bag of synthcoke for his troubles, go home a hero and trade half the drugs for a quickie in a car with comfier backseats than his cruiser. Couldn't ask for a better routine short of giving an Arabian oil lamp a handy.
Where was this exactly? Shit. Mulligan didn't know, and didn't care, beyond His Jurisdiction. The beer was passable, and people were leaving him alone. That's the excuse, of course. He's here for work. Namely, someone's gonna try and make this shithole a little less peaceful. That... won't fly.
See, there's a perception of order to be maintained out here, he supposed, checking the remaining booze in the can with a swill and a squint, like an alchemist turning hops into an elixir that gives eternal life to bad habits. Yeah. A perception of order. Fuck up a few tourist campers? Ah, nobody'll miss 'em. But a drinking-hole like this is what keeps a lot of residents sane, he imagined, or at least distracted enough not to create more fuckin' problems. There were enough problems, and never enough beer, some might say. Mulligan, at first, just liked the free beer. But any cascades? Not a fan, not a fan at all of that concept. So this shithole he couldn't remember the name of, on the corner of Sand and More Sand, he'd keep clean.
He reclined in his chair, snapping the beer-tab off his latest empty, before sitting up normally. With a flick of the thumb, he sent it across the room in the direction of the trashcan.
Hook, line, and... you know the rest. He grinned in such a way that let slip the weight of the darkness in his soul; nary a fucking feather. This was the life, he thought, humming along to the radio as it played. Relax, recline, kill three guys tops, score a bag of synthcoke for his troubles, go home a hero and trade half the drugs for a quickie in a car with comfier backseats than his cruiser. Couldn't ask for a better routine short of giving an Arabian oil lamp a handy.
