Subtitle: The Morning After
Under normal circumstances, he had no problem speaking his mind, however, with a gun pointed at his temple, holding his tongue seemed the wiser option.
"Mr. Saint, wishes to know where his cargo is," came the growling sneer of lackey number one to his left. The warm tip of the blast cannon pressed harder. This close it would vaporize his whole damn face. That was bound to make an impact on his success with the ladies.
"Tell your boss I'll get him the merchandise," he lied. Not that he could remember where it was. He almost wished Saint's thug would pull the trigger as the headache caught up to him, rolling through his brain like the unholy wail of a Southburn Banshee.
Lackey number two circled around him, nose wrinkled. "You stink like an open sewer, Swann. You sipping Poison again?"
Guzzling was more like it. Not that he was going to admit it these goons. He did wonder why he wore a dress though, some lacy white number that caught on his boots when he tried to stand.
Truthfully, a rude wake up call courtesy of Vincent Saint was to be expected. He'd been dodging the 'tradesman' for a solid month. Saint needed to hire better help, it took these two far too long to catch up to him. Where exactly was he?
For the first time since he staggered to his feet, he took stock of his surroundings and person. The empty bottle of Poison beside the bed evoked a wince of fuzzy regret, and what a bed it was, a massive frame of metal supporting a mattress dwarfing his six foot frame. The size gave him pause, as did the assortment of wicked looked weapons adorning the walls. Not to mention the interesting tingle to his lower half. What the hell had he done last night? The dress, the bed, the drink...
The insistent nudge to the side of his face interrupted his train of thought. "Shake off the bloody hangover, Swann. Mr. Saint has run out of patience with you. Now you tell us where the cargo is or we have permission to sully that pretty face of yours."
The threat might have worked if Swann hadn't caught sight of the figure behind them. Two massive neon orange hands curled around each lackey's face. Lackey number two gave an alarmed squeak a second before their heads were smashed together in a gory splatter of bones and brain matter. The headache ceded to a roll of nausea as Swann blinked through the carnage. His lovely dress was ruined.
Saint's former goons dropped to the floor, as his towering rescuer daintily stepped over them, scooping Swann into a set of burly arms.
"Boo-bear," cooed a light baritone voice, "did they injure my delicate flower?" He was cradled against a mountainous scantily clad bosom, shaken out of his shock by the very real threat of being smothered by those tremulous orbs.
Bracing himself, he looked up into the sunset glow face. Not bad looking if tusks were your thing. Three acid green eyes peered down at him with concern as they perused him for bruises. A Trasken, he was being coddled by a Trasken. They made the Amazons of Earth legend look like a group of sissy ninnies. They treated men, of any species, like organ filled punching bags, only respecting physical prowess...
He glanced down at his soiled dress. Oh no.
"Sorry, uh, um?" He stumbled, trying to recall the name of the brawny lady holding him between her skull crushing hands.
"Beulah," she giggled, tickling under his chin.
"What happened last night?" He asked, trying not to flail like a startled cat out of her grip.
"Poor boo-bear," said Beulah, her smile serene, "you beat me in trial by combat."
Oh no. No, no, no. By Trasken law, that meant one thing. Swann swallowed hard. "Ah. Did we uh...?"
Another deep giggle. "Consummate? Enthusiastically," she batted her lashes at him. That explained the tenderness to his nether region. I'm never drinking again.
He eyed biceps wider than his thighs, sifting through the blurred events of the previous evening. Questions dangled from the end of his tongue, quarreling with his hangover for attention. Saint would be displeased when his thugs turned up dead. He would be downright rabid when he learned Swann lost the cargo.
Cargo the ruthless Saint absolutely couldn't have, for the sake of the galaxy. He needed help, anywhere and anyhow he could get it.
Swann managed a charming grimace for his new wife. "Would you like to see my ship?"
Sci Friday Challenge 19
Word Count: Approx 770
