By around dusk most of the space-junkies and mobsters had all backed away from Filio’s Diner, gone back to their filthy hammocks and pill-whores on the lower decks of Sector 4 just as soon as Mr. Mosley’s face lost its usual air of drunken, childish patience and irons were swiftly drawn, cold cocked, and sweaty from hands ready and wanting for blood.
Fairy faggots. All of them, Mosley thought. Alien scum.
Mosley shot all three of em’ right in the face, right then, just for wasting his time, just for not being fucking human. Bloody rivers now carried their card game downstream and off the table’s edge onto the tiled floor. Red blood. Funny.
Mosley turned his Stetson and rolled his old-fashioned guns absently; the old barroom’s creaks giving away his foes position as good as any sonar.
Movement behind a metallic crate of Mod.47 mechanical vaginas…
Mosley spun, fanned a few shots for cover, then dove and chased the “Alien Scum” out the backdoor and out into the open dusty street, where Mosley gunned him down with a shot to what looked like his kneecap.
The tough green bastard just rolled back and with the burst from a concealed jetpack, sprang forward on his bad leg like nothing had even happed. The Green Man drew on Mosley, midair, blasting away with a sawed-off Triton SpreadShot ripped from his overcoat.
Mosley’s pistols were already on their target.