Brap’s parents had always said he’d been destined for great things. At the time, Brap had been inclined to agree. But lately, he’d had his doubts. His bounty hunting career was supposed to have been a springboard into running his own agency… eventually franchising… and here he was, 7 years later, dodging projectile weapons and cursing about his cheap, shoey employer.
Brap's escape from the local authorities had gone fairly well... He'd managed to lay down some suppressing fire, strafed a little, and even did that annoying jumping-while-you-fire strategy, which was impressive for someone of his gargantuan size and lack of toes.
He'd even managed to avoid too much of a scene, and, had it not been for his Deistic MK’s (Mini-Kerblabbimifier*) central cooling unit having decided to all but completely do the opposite of its assigned task, and fusing all of his freonschleps to his garfblongs, he likely would have gotten fully away.
*Kerblabbimify (Ker-blab-um-if-eye): To blow something so completely apart, it is as if its molecules are afraid of one another. In this case, used more as a marketing tool of a sub-par weapon, than as an actual description of its destructive capability.
But as it was, he had made it to the parking lot behind a dumpster, and was currently cursing about how he'd left his ship parked on a restaurant's roof some twenty blocks away.
No comments:
Post a Comment