Me because I can pronounce them, them because I don’t change it to something I can pronounce. There are a lot of alien species that get pretty pissy about name pronunciation. I try to tell them that I failed that class (true), and a human’s vocal cords aren’t really designed to handle some languages. (Also true, but I have mods that allow me to deal with them all, I just choose not to.)
Remember, when you want to criticize me for my bad attitude that I’ve had a hundred and fifty years of dealing with sucky situations in localities that are piss poor. I’ve done this while you were probably sitting on your couch eating those damned bonbons. So, kiss my ass about being politically correct.
Both cheeks.
Hey, they are South American ass cheeks, so at least you got something to kiss, sweetheart.
I read the owner’s message back to me. Billet wanted to know why I was sending credits for messing up a bar that wasn’t damaged at the moment. I replied that there was a Queegert in his place that was about to get the shit kicked out of him, and it was definitely going to mess up some of his furniture. So, unless he built the furniture pretty damned solid, it was going to break.
He told me he was watching the security video. I turned and looked up over my right shoulder at the security camera and smiled, then flipped it off.
I have proper manners like that.
Sure as shit, Q-bert walks over, “You are at my table.” Its great eye peering at me, slightly yellow. I was probably no more at his table than if I had chosen the next one over.
“Bullshit,” I told him. The interesting thing about Q-berts is they really don’t have much bluff in them, and you can read their feelings on their face.
Like, pissed off and excited.
“Name?” I asked it. Another trait of Q-berts is they usually will have a discussion with you before they kick your ass. They aren’t stupid, but occasionally how thoroughly they consider a situation makes a lot of beings think them slow.
“Donaai,” he told me, “you have until I beat you senseless to get out of that chair.”
“Wow, Donald, not much on options, are you?” I asked and stood up, pulling my coat away from my pistol. He looked down and noticed the gun.
“What? You would use something as barbaric as a pistol instead of your arms?” he sneered at me.
Hey, I’d say the same thing in his place. The pistol I use is rare, and most beings haven’t seen one. Those that have usually don’t forget them. However, many have heard descriptions, and there have been a ton of knockoffs. So many that everyone questions what’s real anymore.
Fucking barbarians.
I answered him while stepping a little to the side and planting my left foot in a solid position. “I’m going to give you exactly zero chances to be wise and only one warning. My name is Tabitha. No last name. This is a Duke’s Ranger Special. While I could pull it and make your future a non-event, I’ve already paid the bar owner a hundred credits for the damage I’m about to cause.”
As Donald was working through everything I just told him, I put my hat down on the table and flipped off the camera again. I acted like I was scratching the back of my head.
I’m subtle that way.
It became obvious Donald had arrived at the conclusion I meant to go toe-to-toe with him instead of shooting his ass. When his eye opened perceptibly, I lashed out with my size sevens and kicked his heavy ass through the table behind him to slam into the bar, knocking off four bottles of booze that crashed to the ground.
That was going to suck to clean up. “Not paying for the booze!” I yelled over my shoulder and walked toward the busted table as Donald was trying to get himself standing again. I pulled my necklace out from under my shirt. Then, I yanked my pistol and stuck the tip on his forehead beneath his hair and bent down to stare into his great eye. “So, I kicked your ass across the floor, busted a table, four bottles of booze I’m not paying for, and I figure I probably have another forty credits on my tab. Am I using that money to pay someone to drag your dead ass out of here, or am I using it to buy you and me a couple of drinks while you answer questions from a Queen’s Ranger?”
At that point, he glanced at my chest. Not because my tits impress him, although it is a nice rack, rather because my badge glittered on its chain hanging from my neck. It’s a death sentence to have a fake Ranger badge.
You can try to scam people with fake Ranger pistols, but our badges are fucking sacrosanct. The only time we come together as a group is when we hear about someone trying to fake being a Ranger. We’ve been known to lay waste to places when that happens.
Nobody pretends to be a Queen’s Ranger and gets away with it.
“Number?” he asked me, staring at the badge.
“Two,” I supplied.
If you know much about Rangers, you know the importance of our number. My boss, Barnabas, is One. I followed him quickly into the group and became number Two. Unfortunately, Three was killed, and Four and Five are both in retirement. Six died of natural causes. Well, let’s just say not duty related causes. Sticking his personal fun stick in the wrong woman caused his girl to go all sorts of ballistic on him.
Queen’s Rangers might be pretty damned indestructible, but make an ass out of your woman and give her a fair amount of time and she will figure out your Achilles heel, and there goes your chance for a long life.
So, the next number still running and gunning is Seven. I saw him last year passing through the Menoah Space Station. We had drinks and talked old times until the bar closed down. Good times.
“I’ll take the drink,” Donald told me. I pulled the pistol back, holstered it, and offered him my hand to help him up. He took it, and I easily yanked him standing again.
He looked me up and down, “I’d heard you Rangers were difficult. I didn’t realize how strong you were, too,” he admitted as the bar’s people got to cleaning up the mess. We walked back over to the table I had used, and we both sat down.
“Just curious, which table do you usually use?” I asked him, to break the ice.
He pointed to my chair, “That chair.”
Well, shit. I guess I was mistaken after all.
CHAPTER THREE
Donald and I had another five drinks together. The good stuff, the strong stuff. The stuff that tastes like American southern sweet tea to me, and puts a Q-bert under the damned table. Alcohol, often useful to lower the inhibitions for many species, doesn’t affect me. Which is a mixed blessing. Unfortunately, it doesn’t affect a Q-bert, either.
Sugar, however, really messes them up. I have no idea what a donut would do to them, a Q-bert would probably have an orgasm right here on the floor. Hell, for a good donut, I’d have an orgasm, too.
Damn, now I need a donut.
However, Donald was cognizant enough to spill the beans that the local pain in the ass was a Therine named some shit I couldn’t pronounce. So, I named him Barney. Yeah, after the purple dinosaur. If you saw a Therine, you would totally find his new name funny as hell.
I paid to put Donald up in one of the cheap rooms to sleep off his stupor. I had fifteen credits on my tab left after I renegotiated with Billet. He wanted me to pay for the bottles of broken booze. I emphatically replied I wasn’t. Three shot out security cameras later, he agreed with me.
>> Achronyx, pull the data on grid Delta 07 by Charlie 02 and show.<<
I reviewed the image sent to my eye. “Fucking castle he has there,” I mumbled to myself.
The bar was beginning to fill up, and most had heard the rumors about the fight earlier. I walked to the door and reviewed the outside drone cameras I had dropped just to make sure nothing unexpected was awaiting me. I pulled open the doors and stepped out into the late afternoon sun. It took me a couple of minutes to locate a runner who could take a message on a micro-crystal. I paid the little twerp two credits and waited another thirty minutes while tracking the runner over to Barney’s place.