by James McEwan
They say that one should not judge a book by its cover, he thought as he stepped inside. The interior was in stark contrast to the outside. Where the outside was dirty, rusting, and generally rundown, the inside was spotless and looked well maintained. The owner had made it to look like an old time western saloon bar, complete with mirror, a plump Rubenesque nude painting, and every form of alcoholic beverage known to mankind, and not a few aliens besides.
Marcus recognized a characteristic stainless steel bottle of Thaagh120 proof Eli white lightning. Here also was a dark green flask of Zapp 96, the highly concentrated skull cracker from Fabia, guaranteed to make you an alcoholic with one drink. A squat ceramic jug glazed a sickly yellow and covered with nasty looking sharp pointed deep red Ralnai characters could only be Death Thorne Wine. The tall clear bottle of pale blue liquor, mixed with luminous fish eggs, would be Kalfrondo, from the water world of Nekton. On the top shelf, along with more conventional whiskies, were many rare and bizarre drinks that were completely unknown to him. However, the centerpiece of it all was a huge magnum bottle of Cunk Mellon Brandy, the favorite and rare guzzle of the Terrelians. Marcus wondered at this, surely, he thought, even if this is filled with nothing more than colored water it is an extremely rare bottle. Even with its browning cracked label it would be worth a fortune to a collector.
The bar itself was hand polished hardwood, likely cherry by the dark color. It had brightly polished brass fittings, and standing behind the bar was a short, plump older woman, with brown hair streaked with grey. She had a cloth in her hand and was wiping out a glass as she looked up at the new comer and smiled. “Welcome to Bob’s. The name’s Jenna. What can I get for you, Sir?”
Marcus shook the dust off himself, detached the breathing apparatus and the visor retracted automatically. He gave her a warm smile, “Well Jenna, I heard this was the best place in town to get a meal, so...”
“So you would like to get some grub,” she finished his sentence for him.
“Yes, that would be great,” he replied rubbing his hands together.
She smiled again and handed him a handwritten menu, “Anything to drink dear?”
Shocked to see the establishment had a menu he replied, “Wow, a menu! I wasn’t expecting that.” He quickly looked over the drink options on the back.
“Lemonade, with ice please,” he said before he took a seat at a table near the back. Marcus sat with his back to the wall positioning himself so he had a clear view of the exit.
“Oh you’re in luck today,” she said as she moved to the table nearest the bar where a few pitchers rested, “we just got in a fresh batch of lemons this morning.”
“Real lemons? Really? I would have thought that you would be using food replicators this far out,” he added surprised.
“Oh no Sir, not here! Carl, the owner and chef, he hates those damned things, and he won’t use them unless he absolutely must.” She placed a large glass with ice on the table in front of him and poured.
Marcus picked up the glass and took a sip of the cool liquid, “Wow! This is the best glass of lemonade I have ever had!” He savored the perfect blend of sweet and tartness, the aromatic essence of cool lemon, crisp enough to make the grime and dust of Nome seem light years away. As he relished each sip, he found himself pondering if it was weird for him, a man created for the sole purpose of ending the life of others to enjoy something as simple as a great glass of lemonade.
Jenna giggled, “Thank you, it’s the lemons. I get them from a friend on Maxis Prime where he grows them in volcanic soil. That’s the trick you see, the soil. For some reason volcanic soil produces the best produce and the soil on Maxis prime is the absolute best in the galaxy, probably the best in the whole damn universe, for that matter.” She was about to ask him what he wanted to order when a loud bang and clanging sound came from the vent. It was followed by a puff of black smoke. “Damn it Carl,” she shouted toward the kitchen, “the air conditioner is on the fritz again!”
From out of the kitchen came a large man. Well, large wasn’t perhaps the best word. Carl was incredibly portly, almost as big around as he was tall. His hair was long gone, replaced by a halo of sweat that was pouring down the back of his round head, collecting on his dumpling-like cheeks. Despite the proliferation of moisture, his white chef’s frock and red kerchief were nearly pristine, “Do you want me to get it?” He asked.
She was already back at the bar, fishing through a box of tools. Holding up a large wrench with a look of defiance on her face she said, “No, I want you to replace the damn thing!” She turned to Marcus, “He is a master in the kitchen, but as cheap as they come. He will use something until it wears out, and then he’ll find a way to use it some more.” She stormed past Carl shaking the wrench overhead, yelling, “Just take the customer’s order, you lump head. I’ll go fix the damn thing again!”
Carl sauntered over to Marcus’s table, “Ah that’s my Jenna.”
“How long have you two been married?”
Carl winced at the thought. “Oh God no! Jenna and me? Not on your life. Not my type, that one. She’s a bit, how do you say, ‘special,’ for my tastes. But, she’s worked for me for many years. I can see how you might think that. Now that I think about it, she often acts like she’s my wife.” He laughed a deep belly laugh that made his entire visage bounce up and down violently. “So my friend what can I get for you today?”
Marcus looked over the menu, but couldn’t choose, “What do you suggest?”
Carl took a rag from his pocket and with one of his massive hands wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I have a barbeque, pulled pork sandwich with baked beans that is just out of this world. No pun intended.”
“Sounds great, I’ll take that. And if you don’t mind, could you bring a pitcher of that lemonade over here, I can’t seem to get enough it,” he said and set his empty glass down.
From the vent came the sound of a pitch battle between Jenna and the air conditioner, followed by a long stream of rants and cussing, some of which Marcus had never heard before. Carl and Marcus looked at each other and laughed at the thought of little round Jenna beating the machine with a wrench, and cussing that would make a Terrain Marine blush. Carl grabbed up the pitcher from the bar and brought it to the table. He then disappeared back into the kitchen.
Sitting at a table near the bar was a wrinkled older man who had the appearance of a raisin left in the sun too long. The old man appeared harmless enough, so Marcus paid him no particular attention. He was surprised he hadn’t noticed someone else in the bar right away. The old man must have been in the restroom when he came in, he surmised.
Marcus’ thoughts turned once again to the cook. Maybe Carl was not all that he seemed, but if the man came here to hide, he was doing a good job of it. Curious as he was about Carl, Marcus had no intention of attempting to uncover his past. Carl had reasons for hiding here, just as he did himself. He was deep in thought when Jenna came back into the bar covered in grease and God knows what else. She smiled at him, and pointed to the now working air vent. After depositing the wrench in the toolbox, she turned on her heels and walked back through the swinging double doors to get cleaned up.
Carl brought out his meal moments later. It smelled as good as it looked, and it looked good. The food was piled high, and the first bite sent Marcus’s mouth into sensory overload. Carl smiled, knowing the food was a hit and left him to eat his magnificent meal in peace.
After the meal, Carl came back with some apple pie alamode and set it down in front of Marcus. “I think that you will find that nothing follows pork like apple pie and homemade ice cream, fresh churned today.”
“Carl you need to be careful, you just might have created a monster here.” Marcus smiled then took a bite of the pie.
Laughing his deep belly laugh again Carl proclaimed, “God I hope so, it’s so hard to find good repeat customers around here.”
“Well Carl you have nothing to worry about. I’m pretty sure I’ll be back for
more of this,” Marcus said between bites. He devoured the pie and ice cream and when he was finished he wiped his face, “So Carl why Bob’s, and not Carl’s?”
“When I came here years ago I had nothing, but the clothes on my back and my culinary skills. The owner Bob was kind enough to take me on with no questions asked. At first he was difficult to work with, he was a bit cantankerous. A year later we were thick as thieves,” he paused as he remembered his friend. “We did everything together, but Bob was old and he liked to drink, and boy he could too, let me tell you. But it was too bad the drink didn’t like him as much.”
Spell bound by his story Marcus asked, “So did the drink kill him?”
Carl smiled, “In a manner of speaking it did. You know it’s funny, we have all these great and wonderful medical cures, I mean we can flash clone organs even, but we still have not found a cure for doing stupid things while drunk.”
“What happened?” Marcus just had to know what became of the old man.
“Well one night after we closed up, we started drinking, and I don’t remember when I passed out, but sometime after I was long under the table snoring off a bottle of Black Thorn whiskey he wondered outside. Well, to make a long story short, he found himself outside the general store, and God only knows what really happened. What we think happened was that he was so drunk, that he mistook the old bucket head robot Indian for a urinal, because we found him dead the next day, pants down. Doc Burton said he was electrocuted, and the poor old bucket head hasn’t worked since.”
Marcus had never laughed like he was now, “No way! He pissed on the robot and it shorted out killing him?”
“Yeah poor Bob pissed on the wrong robot,” Carl laughed. “You would have had to known Bob, but he would laughed too if he wasn’t dead.” They laughed some more then Carl calmed down, “Oh poor old Bob, anyway he had left me the place in his will and I couldn’t bring myself to change the name.”
“Well here is to old Bob,” Marcus held up his glass. Carl was all smiles, but the men who came through the door next changed everything.
“Carl, get your fat ass over here and pour us some whiskey. Right now, if you can manage to move that huge ass of yours!”
Carl moved to the bar as quickly as he could, but it didn’t stop the men from berating him. “Come on fatty move it, I’m thirsty!” The display of disrespect toward Carl was really beginning to upset Marcus. His first thought was just to kill these two idiots, but he reconsidered, not wanting to draw any undue attention to himself. The last thing he needed was to pop up on the law enforcement grid for killing two lowlifes. He dropped a credit note, which was more than enough to cover his meal with a generous tip, and decided he was better off quietly departing.
As he walked past the men at the bar, one of them reached out suddenly and grabbed his wrist. He was a short balding man, with over-developed forearms, whose grip was like a vice. Marcus had three choices, kill the man, get his arm broken, or do nothing and just play along, for now. He opted for option three. “Can I help you, friend?” Marcus asked the man holding his arm, glancing first to the man’s hand, and then slowly to his partner.
“It’s rude to go off without buying your new friends a drink. So, how about you sit down here and enjoy a drink with us… friend?” he said to Marcus, while throwing a knowing wink to his companion. This was a mistake. Had the man looked into Marcus’ hard cold steel grey eyes he would have known the dark stranger was not a man to be messed with.
Marcus continued to play the easy mark, biding his time. “Okay…friend. Carl, pour these fine gentlemen another round, on me.”
The two men laughed, and the one holding him finally released his arm. “Gentlemen…Where in the Hell are you from? Gentle is not what we are, friend. I’m Max, but people call me Mighty Max and this here tall ugly bastard is Too Tall Stan. They call him that on account of him being so tall.” Anyone could tell that from the man’s height, as he was nearly a staggering seven feet tall. “Now that we are getting to be fast friends you can do me a favor there buddy, and put your wallet and any other valuables you’ve got, right up there on the bar. It saves us the trouble of beating you up and taking them anyway.”
Marcus couldn’t help but get a chuckle out of these backwater bandits, “Oh how refreshing, a robber with manners, who would have ever guessed.”
Max was not amused at the sarcasm, “Not manners, I’m just tired. Besides, I really don’t want to get blood on my shirt. This one’s my favorite, call me lazy, but washing out blood can be a real pain in the ass.”
Trying to appease the bandit, Marcus tossed a pile of credit notes on the bar. “Here you go -- that’s all I got,” he lied.
Max scooped the money off the bar. “What do you take me for some kind of idiot? I know your jacket and that there fancy hat would fetch me a pretty penny. So, take them off and leave them too.” Marcus could see this was going from bad to worse, but taking off his coat just wasn’t an option, they would know he was armed and that would leave him without the element of surprise.
As they talked, Marcus slowly and methodically positioned himself next to Max, with his body facing Max’s profile. Max didn’t seem to notice he had also placed his foot on the bottom of his stool. It was yet another mistake Max had made. The last mistake Max made was not watching Marcus’ right hand as he dropped it down to his side and closed round the grip of the pistol strapped to his leg. “Sorry Max.”
“Why?” Max asked, puzzled at the unexpected apology.
“I really like my hat and coat and I’m not about to part with them. Oh, and for this,” he said as he kicked the bottom leg of Max’s stool with all his strength.
The stool skidded out from underneath Max, and flew across the room. Max, who had a shot glass to his lips at the time, dropped straight down, his chin biting into the bar with a sickening crunch. As glass shattered it nearly severed his top lip, and the years of neglect to his dental hygiene became painfully clear, as his weakened teeth shattered when his jaws slammed together.
The force of the impact caused Max’s head to snap back and his body followed suit. In less than a second Max lay on the floor, mouth full of blood, too dazed to do anything…but bleed on his shirt. “And for getting blood on your shirt,” he finished saying as Max lay on the ground.
At the same time, Marcus drew his pistol and pointed it at the head of Too Tall Stan, who was going for his own gun. “I would not do that if I were you!” He motioned to Stan’s hand, which was on the butt of his own pistol, “Unless you want me to put a hole in your head and ventilate that tiny brain of yours.” Stan let go of the gun and placed his hand slowly back up on the bar. When he looked Marcus in the eyes, he felt cold to his very core. Stan had seen this look before in other men who killed without hesitation or remorse. He knew he wasn’t making a threat, but a promise.
Marcus carefully backed out of the cantina, keeping the gun trained on Stan. “Good boy Stan, I would hate for Carl to have to clean your brains off of his beautiful bar. Now you do the smart thing, and stay right here and take care of your buddy. I’m going to walk out the door and if you want to live to see another day don’t you try to follow me.”
Stan had enough sense not to try to move, but he had seen the weapon that Marcus was carrying. It was not the common laser pistol most people were carrying these days. Nope, this guy had an antique expanding gas powered weapon! Extremely rare, and worth more to the right buyer then all the scores they had made that year. He keyed his communicator, “Hey Boss, you there?”
A very annoyed voice came over the comm. “This better be good Stan, or I’m going to gut you like a pig and make a modern art piece out of your intestines!”
“Max and I had just had a run in with a guy that is sporting some very expensive hardware, if you know what I mean.”
“I take it you relieved him of it?”
Stan stood looking down at Max, who was curled in a ball bleeding, “Well, not really.”
“What? What? What? Th
en why are you calling me?” The reply was so loud that the comm had a hard time compensating for the over modulation caused by the bosses screaming. Despite his best effort, it still was hard to understand.
Stan picked up the shot glass, and swallowed the contents hard before speaking again. “Well boss the guy is good. He took Max out and got the drop on me in a flash, but I think we can take him with a needle rifle.” The boss listened to Stan’s plan. He liked it and moved quickly to put it into action.
Outside the sandstorm had stepped up in intensity. A harsh gust of wind slammed into Marcus and he felt like someone had just run a piece of course sandpaper across his face. He now understood why the building’s paint was almost nonexistent. He readied himself to deal with the sand storm and push against the wind as his made his way back to the hotel.
Lying in wait for Marcus was a sniper, he was armed with a standard issue needle rifle. The sniper flipped up the plastic covers that shielded the optics on his thermal scope. He had chosen the needle rifle because of the unique way in which it works. The weapon has a two-stage trigger and once on target, the operator pulls the trigger back half way and the weapon emits a tube shaped force field from the end of the barrel to the target. Then when ready, the operator pulls the trigger all the way back and the weapon using magnetic acceleration, fires a metal dart down the force field tube to the target. The dart can be filled with any number of substances from poison to tranquilizers. In this case, the choice was tranquilizers.
The man behind the needle rifle wanted to test the scope, he looked through his thermal scope at a stray dog that had found a lose wall panel and was trying it’s best to hide from the whirling sand. Happy that his scope was working under the harsh conditions he turned it away from the dog. Focusing on the street, he waited for his prey to present its self.
Not only was there sand in the air, but the storm was generating large amounts of electromagnet energy which were wreaking so much havoc with Marcus’ hazard sensors that he had no idea he just walked into a trap. If there had been no storm the sensors built into his suit would have detected the power signature the second the sniper flipped on the weapon, however the heads up display on his visor was a mess of static and jumbled information.
