Megaera Kastrati
Club LUSH
Kastari had seen alot of shit in his time-he’d seen what happened when some chucklefuck put a goddamn reporter in charge of the night’s watch (answer-he took advantage of the incompetence and filled the incompetent moron’s sleeping bag with whip scorpions...and then he’d recorded it and put it up on youtube, to great acclaim). He’d seen what happened when some inbred, hicksville, southern-fried idiot turned commander was put in charge of a mixed-unit attack (answer, they end up raiding an empty airport whileCaptain Idiot yelled about running in a “serpentine pattern”).
And last but certainly not least, he’d seen what happened when some insane genius smuggled a full grown tiger into base camp (answer: he drove a bitching Humvee through the capital city with the world’s most badass passenger hanging his head out the window and trying to take bites out of bystanders while the police looked on dumbstruck).
Kastarti stared at the radio, nestled in a cranny in the back rooms of Club LUSH. He’d just been punching in for the day. His morning whiskey still fresh on his breath.
The ex-merc sighed. All the shit he’d seen…..and done….and to others….and been nearly convicted for…..and bribed/blackmailed his way out of….
…..and yet, Nori goddamn Haywood had somehow managed to summon down just enough trouble to make him doubt he’d be able to partake in his traditional end-of-shift ritual (growl at the remaining customers, flip off the manager behind his back and nestle himself in a corner and eat cold pizza, followed by smuggled in booze). Foam and nightcore night. And the conniving radio host had mentioned him by name, and mentioned he was *single*. If anyone tried to serenade him, he wasn’t going to be held responsible for what happened next. And god have mercy on the bailiff and arresting officers who would try to hold him responsible. No jury in the state-no the nation would convict him.
Hell, if they did, it wasn’t like he could stab/punch/shoot/insult his way out of it. Hopefully.
Well. He could still deal with this. He just had to be as unpleasant and monosyllabic as possible, and generally channel his spirit animal when it came to situations like this. That spirit animal being a possibly rabid, aggressive, cat. He connected to that concept on a spiritual level when it came to dealing with the shifty mischievous radio hosts who took an interest in his love life. Something about being a bundle of ill-concealed rage lashing out at vague shapes and colors just….spoke to him.
The ex-merc finished punching his time card, hypothetical scenes of violence that would make a Clint Eastwood movie green with envy flashing through his mind as he did so. Yep. Just had to channel Crazy Edd the Rabid Tomcat and everything would be just fine.
A patently serene (and terrifying) smile worked it’s way onto the forcibly retired merc’s face. Yep. Just fine. Tonight was going to be just fine.
Somewhere, a fortune teller got a chill up their spine, and couldn’t quite say why.
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