And in steps a fella who calls himself Theist. I'm sure that it's an assumed name, but whose isn't around these parts?
He has the air of a guy who's seen everything and done more, no doubt collecting a few of those scars on the way. His handshake is hard and fast, like the revolver strapped to his thigh. "Name's Theist," he says, "I'm just stopping by on my way back from a particularly nasty bounty hunt on Io. Got anything to drink in this rathole?" I call for the bartender, but he's already there. "Your usual, sir?" He must be a regular here, or well on his way to being one. Happy Harry doesn't call just anyone "Sir." There's just no way that kind of courtesy develops out of the blue in a hole like this. You earn that. You earn it by being one of the best in the business, right up there with Spike Spiegel and Cold Rock Johnson. "How 'bout I get this round for you," I suggest, ". . .Theist, was it?" I'll have to watch you, yessiree.
