[hr][hr][center][img]http://txt-dynamic.static.1001fonts.net/txt/b3RmLjExNi5kYzA5MDQuVUc5dmJHVSwuMAAA/quaaludes.regular.png[/img][/center][hr][hr]

"Jesus [i]christ[/i] you're big. Mike, come look at this guy."

Poole did not turn. He winced for a moment, considering the flippant use of the big J's name, but the man's drunken tone didn't sound like enough importance to address for a proper conversation. After all, he had just paid the jukebox all of the remaining post-soda coins in his pocket. This jukebox, like many others on Mars, was connected to the planet's wireless internet, and the daunting challenge of picking a song out of [i]every[/i] song had only just now dawned on Poole. At times like this, he would usually revert to an old classic. Something meaningful, and yet, not something somebody else in the bar would pay to skip. Something uplifting for the crew, even.

[color=DC0904]"Play 'Spirit in the Sky'."[/color]

"[b]YOU HAVE SELECTED, SPIRIT IN THE SKY, RECORDED BY NORMAN GREENBAUM, 1969. CONFIRM SELECTION?[/b]"

[color=DC0904]"Confirm."[/color]

"[b]NOW PLAYING.[/b]"

Nodding to the song's low, steady riff, Poole turned back to return to his crew and soda. Or, so he had expected to. Instead, he was met by the voice that had addressed him, and whoever Mike was. He wasn't sure which was which. Both were men in their twenties, one with long hair and a red leather jacket, and the other with a dark blue mohawk and white denim vest. Both had a considerable number of piercings and tattoos, each of worsening levels of infection. The one in the red jacket had "STABYA" spelled down the zipper of his jacket in letterman jackets, whereas his vest-wearing partner had "[color=powderblue]ALL COPS CAN DIE[/color]" tattooed in  faded blue letters on his hairline. In Poole's experience, men who decorated themselves with outright lettering instead of symbolism were usually dumb enough to mean the things they conveyed. Take himself, for instance. Neither gave Poole the look he knew people gave when they wanted to fight someone, though all things considered, there were better-looking duos to be approached by. The long-haired youth seemed excited, whereas the one with the mohawk only gave him a steely gaze. He was probably Mike.

"Goddamn, you must bench half a ton, eh?" said the skinnier, long-haired punk. In the corner of his mouth, he chewed a light-up toothpick, glowing from top to bottom with dim red lights not unlike a deli sign.

"[i]Why do they keep making more things light up?[/i]", Poole absent-mindedly thought to himself.

[color=DC0904]"That I do. Try not to take his name in vain, brother."[/color] Poole said with a faint smile, walking past the two. Compliments made him uncomfortable, but moreso than compliments, the kid in the mohawk was making him uncomfortable. His friend just seemed like a frat boy trying to befriend a scary tattooed guy and look cool, but Mike was not. Mike was looking at him with an odd squint, as if Poole had one of those impossible triangle optical illusions tattooed on his face. Not enough to start a fight over, but certainly enough to make him wary. Kids and their phones were no friend to an old guy like Poole.

"Hahaha, cool man, I like that. My name's Zay." The long-haired punk chuckled, extending a hand to Poole.

[color=DC0904]"Nice to meet you, Zay."[/color] Poole shook his hand by the wrist with a loose grip, where a concealed knife would have been. South Mars and North Titan where the only two spots in the solar system to put him on edge, and as it stood, they were in the middle of South-Flippin'-Mars. Poole began to bob to the music he had put on once more, beginning to turn away.

"That's Mike over there." Zay said, slightly raising his voice over the music. He pointed to his friend, who remained perplexedly looking at Poole. Never a good sign. Poole gave Mike a nod, and continued walking to the crew. He regretted not taking a seat, opting to hover and pace when they arrived. Now, all he could do was lean on the bar and not make eye contact. Besides, it seemed like something happened with Jeremiah. That boy was always on his keister in the dirt, and today was no exception. 

"Sir, do you see my glasses?" The bartender had asked the ship's linguist through a thick accent, holding up a horizontally-ribbed highball glass. "My glasses all are this shape, yes? You drink milk, the milk gets in the glass, and it becomes cheese, sir. I cannot clean it. You buy a real drink or you and the funky bunch get out of my Shaggy Yak. Your giant not even order anything."

"And you are?" Poole heard behind him, Zay having appeared out of the sparse crowd. Poole remained silent, watching the scene unfold, bobbing his head as if the music had drowned Zay out. He tapped him on the back twice.

"I didn't get your name."

[color=DC0904]"Poole."[/color]

Zay nodded, calling the bartender over with two fingers. "Let me get a beer for my new friend Poole, barkeep."

Poole shook his head, forcing a smile. [color=DC0904]"I don't drink."[/color]

Before Zay could respond, Mike approached him from the crowd, offering up his first bit of input to the conversation. His voice was low and hushed, with the gravel of a man who had been smoking for twice as long as Poole had been alive.

"You know anybody named [i]Al[/i]?"

Poole looked at Mike with a confused glint in his eye, processing all of his options as quickly as he could.

"The ape?" Mike continued, with less of a question in his tone and more of an affirmative reminder.

[color=DC0904]"Meet me in the bathroom."[/color] Poole said quietly. Zay and Mike looked to one another with a shrug, and began making their way to the restroom. Poole sighed, turning back to the scene that had unfolded at the bar. Jeremiah was making his way back to the waking world, and Lynette seemed to have pacified the barkeep somewhat.

[color=DC0904]"Lemme get one of those sodas, bartender."[/color] Poole grumbled, turning to Xaara.

[color=DC0904]"I'll be right back, I gotta take a leak. I think we should leave soon."[/color]

With that, he stood up and pushed his stool in, patting the large shipping pilot on the back as he did so with a thin smile. As always, something was [i]very[/i] wrong, and there was nary a thing he could say to the crew about it without fielding a survey of questions. Gone were the good old days of people not asking about a man's past. Whether or not he liked it, Poole was not alive in the age of pirates, gunslingers, bootleggers, or bikers. Poole was alive in the age of registries, facial recognition, and databanks that could turn every stone from a person's life.

The bathroom was about as filthy as Poole expected it to be, with two lockless stalls halfway closed, a heavily-graffiti'd mirror, and an aroma that seemed to say "Every square inch of this room has had urine on it." The floor was a maze of cracks and stains, whereas even the ceiling was lined with many thick, leaky pipes. Zay sat on the ledge of a grated-over window, while Mike leaned on the sole sink. Both looked pretty pleased with themselves. Both were holding blades. Poole suddenly understood the "STABYA" jacket.

"You're quite a name in these parts, but I can see why you changed it." Mike said, lifting himself from the sink.

[color=DC0904]"What do you want?"[/color] Poole asked, staring down his opponent. Fear was the mind-killer that won battles, not knives. Only the fear of them that makes the unarmed strike half-heartedly.

"I know the feds already got your bounty, but the rat-cheese Jozo wo-"

This was as far as Mike got before being kicked in the face. Already having sized up his odds, by the time he understood Mike's intentions at "rat-cheese", Poole leapt up and grabbed one of the thicker pipes as if to do a chin-up, kicking Mike square in the jaw with both heels like a kangaroo, sending him crashing backwards into Zay.

Zay, who was more prepared to extort hush-money from an ex-criminal than actually [i]fight[/i] that ex-criminal, dropped his knife, pushing the unconscious body of his partner in crime to the side. "Please, Al -- Poole, whatever, please, man."

His pleas were met with a swift palm to the face, sending his neck flopping backwards and the back of his head onto the wall. Knocked out just as quickly as his friend. Or killed. Poole wasn't one to ponder on things like that. Before Poole could deliver a clever one-liner, he frisked the two of them, procuring two old-fashioned flip phones and snapping them, tossing the remaining plastic chunks at the stall next to him. Instead of the sound of phone-bits hitting tile, he heard an audible "Ow". His head snapped to the side.

There were two balding salarymen in the stall next to him, one in a state of undress, and the other in a state of being on his knees with a dude's willy in his hand. Poole wasn't sure what to do in situations like this, and so a beat of silent eye contact passed before he could say anything.

[color=DC0904]"I won't tell if you guys don't tell."[/color]

"Hai."

Poole gave the pair a curt nod, and left the bathroom, fighting the urge to make a beeline for the exit. Instead, he casually made his way back to the bar, even singing along to the "I've got a friend in Jesus" chorus of the song he had selected, mumbling most of the words that came after that.

[color=DC0904]"Hey guys, I'm gonna head back to the ship. This place is a little too shaggy for me, and we've got time and money to make up. By the time you're back I should have something cooking on the bounty-comm."[/color] He placed a few coins on the bar, taking his can of soda with a nod to the bartender and making his way to the front door.