[center][h2]Never Threaten The One Who Pours The Drinks - Katya Voss cont.[/h2][/center] “Ah washed tha sink fah yah, ma’am…oh,” the bar’s last patron said mildly as he was brought up short by the scene before him. There stood the woman...Katya, if he’d heard her name correctly over the earlier noise of a busy night at Shindigs. She was icily still, her face pale with fright. She’d been working to close, a towel draped over one shoulder, until a pistol had nuzzled its’ way into the hair on the back of her head. Dorian eyed the gun. It was a cannon, typically freakish behemoth of a weapon chosen by those who thought such a sideshow piece would add to a dwindling street cred. A big gun to make a big noise. As he sized up the weapon and the man who brandished it, he felt fairly certain that it was loaded with hollow point slugs that had never entered the chamber. “Get out,” the intruder hissed, his gaze held upon the contrasting colors of his victim’s hair. He was thirtyish, a few years younger than Dorian himself. Cheap suit, scuffed shoes, and a two day stubble were sufficient tells to complete a base assessment. Here was a low level footsoldier in somebody’s organization. Not a bright enough spark to rise through the ranks. Doomed to be a hanger-on, never to be welcomed to the family itself. “I said ‘Get out!” His gaze had turned, but the weapon hadn’t. Dorian took a breath, meeting the command with a shrug. “Ah’d do that,” he drawled, “but fah one or two little things. That’s mah hat on tha bar,” he nodded, “and that drink next to it is paid fah.” The man’s eyes followed, flicking left toward the broad brimmed hat and the double shot of bourbon sitting alongside. An instant later, his nervous gaze returned to find the business end of a nickel plated revolver just inches from the bridge of his nose. “Now then,” Dorian spoke with the ease of a man accustomed to sipping juleps on his back porch, “what say we dispense with these unpleasantries and let this poor woman go home?”