SmackDown: MadMike's Revenge!

Round 4, Dudecore: Trump - @AngusEcrivain

Trump: Bounty Hunter, Hitman, Fan of One Direction

by AngusEcrivain

Impact

He watched the vessel go down, its electrical systems going completely and totally haywire thanks to the weapon he had long ago named Bertha.

One might expect a weapon monikered as such to be somewhat on the large side as the 'Big Bertha' driver, as anyone who enjoys the occasional nineteen holes is well aware, is indeed a beast of a club.

Instead, Bertha was quite compact but a precise shot from her modest barrel could bring down anything from a dropship to a planet-killer.

He was proud of that, and rightfully so.

It would not be fair to say that Bertha was the reason he was the most sought after bounty hunter in the galaxy, able to command a fee almost triple that of his closest rival, but it would not be an entirely inaccurate statement.

The vessel, mere seconds from crashing to the ground as it was, was the transport carrying the exiled Uinian Royal Family from their war torn homeworld following a particularly nasty and brutal coup.

He did not concern himself with the trivialities of politics as such things only ever got in the way of an honest day's work, however this was the tenth occasion upon which he had been called upon to take out one of the galaxy's royal families. It was also the tenth occasion he had succeeded in doing so and as such he permitted himself a wry smile, hidden from anyone who might have been watching by the helmet that completely covered his face and head.

The vessel exploded on impact. He was unaware of the specific ins and outs of the craft but he knew plenty to be confident in making an educated guess as to the cause of the explosion, and he was wholly aware it had nothing to do with the fact Bertha had shorted the ship's electrical systems, at least not directly. Of course, many things upon a ship were dependant upon electricity and his suspicion was that the coolant used to prevent the vessel's core drive from overheating got too hot too quickly. All it needed then was the right kind of spark and an impact involving the levels of torque supercars dreamed of was definitely capable of delivering such a thing.

Satisfied his work was done he activated his helmet's communication unit.

"It's Trump. Put me through." A matter of seconds later, a beep indicated his request had been granted. "The job's done. It'll take generations of geologists to separate the Uinian Royals from the mountainside of whatever-the-hell this damn rock's called."

The Walk-In Client

The vodka was going down far too easily but that was nothing new. Trump had never had any problems when it came to relieving a given establishment of its supply, especially following a job.

It had nothing to do with guilt or nerves or anything like that. He just really liked vodka, neat, and the killing of folk seemed as good an idea as any to get shitfaced.

The pub was a quiet, dingy place, and Trump frequented it often. In fact that particular ambience was part of the reason he did so. The other reason, of course, was the vodka. Unlike many of the places he visited, places in this case referring to the rather large amount of pubs, bars and other similar establishments he visited, the pub actually kept their vodka in a chiller, something every aficionado of that particular spirit will attest makes it even more delicious.