[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/SRTK8V8.jpg[/img][/center]

[center][h2]"Twirling Rabbit"[/h2][/center]
[hr]

Collins had been walking the streets and alleys of Khao Yai a good three hours. (Actually, ‘good’ was pushing luck. Lousy was more fitting.) He didn’t really have a program. No place special to be, nobody to hold sway over him. Back home, that was rare. There was always a place to go, or a days’ work (or ten) to be done. But since he’d gone off-world, in those rare occasions when he had himself to hisself, he knew what he had to do. Collins had meandered into and out of a dozen bars since leaving the Troy, and none had the right feel to it. Too clean. Too filthified. Too bright. Too sparsely packed with folk. Too ruttin’ busy. Too loud. 

His walk had taken him on a circuitous route to nowhere. He followed no path save his nose, and a hunch he’d find something. Something important. He turned a corner onto yet another poorly-lit stretch of crowded [i]Jao Gao[/i], and immediately found what he was after: The Neon sign reported, in badly translated English, the ‘Twirling Rabbit.’ Except the sign was broken, and in the dim light with letters missing, Barstow saw only ‘Twirling Ra__t’ and said as much, under his breath. [color=fdc68a]“Twirling Rat, huh? Seems my kind of place.”[/color] There was a cowboy retching violently at the corner of the establishment – too much ‘shine, or not enough, Collins couldn’t be sure. 

He nimbly crossed the street between a pack of four thread-bare hare krishnas and a grav-truck that should have been on the scrap pile a decade ago and, side-stepping the vomit outside the ‘Twirling Ra__t,’ stepped inside. He knew at once this was the place, and silently cussed out his inner monologue for wasting three or more hours of time when this had obviously been the spot all along. All eyes turned to him as he entered. There were at the very least three or four illicit acts in progress that he could have judged on the spot, if he were back home, and near every one o’these old boys looked like they’d done a stretch or three. He tugged at the brim of his hat to the room, and as he did so the collected rain-water ran off in a small rivulet, and eyes turned back to their previous efforts.

He walked to the bar, placing his hands on its cool, worn top, and swiveled into a stool. There was no immediate response. He flipped a few coins onto the bar-top, and flicked one, such that it spun like a top. The barkeep approached, a hard-baked and squinty-eyed woman of maybe forty, with a voice like she’d gargled with broken glass once too often. [color=7bcdc8]“What’ll it be, drifter? We got beer, bourbon, an’ two kinds o’ the local tonic that’ll strip paint as soon as make you forget yer ills…”[/color] 

[color=fdc68a]“I’m not thirsty, [i]dohn[/i]? I’m looking for someone.”[/color] She slapped her hand down on the spinning coin, stopping it dead. A few eyes close by took note. [color=7bcdc8]“Well this ain’t no whorehouse, and I don’t need no [i]shi yan[/i], stranger. You care to whet your whistle, you let me know…”[/color] She moved to leave him, but not before he slapped two more coins down on the table, slid them into her hand. [color=fdc68a]“[i]Ja Hwo[/i] goes by the handle Jonas Flint. Travels with a few [i]Kai Tze[/i]… I’m sure someone here might’ve heard of them.”[/color] 

At the mention of Flint, there are some hushed utterances, and the scraping of a few chairs against the floor. The barkeep jerked her head toward a dark corner. [color=7bcdc8]“Talk to her. Then get out. Don’t want none of yer trouble.”[/color]