It’s real simple, fella. Met this girl, pretty thing with pink hair, purring like a single-drop Sally. Buy ‘er a few drinks, right. Asks me how I throw. Tell ‘er, “Price ain’t nothing. Good n’ flush from a long ride.” Must’ve lit her torch.
So anyway, we found a nice little spot, out the back corridor. I hears some hollerin’ behind us. I flipped around all hard-burn to tell ‘em to dock elsewhere. There’s this little bald man holdin’ a half-meter bloody chiv; he’s standing over that curled up dead fella.
Look, here’s the short version. I’m licensed. I was working the bar when some half-witted asteroid hopper comes stumbling in, fresh-to-port. I smile at him, and the fool shoves a lemon-afterburn into my hand before I can wink. He’s buying the good gin, too so I figure, easy trick, right? I ask him how he throws; says he’ll pay anything for it.
I take him to my toss-down in the back corridor, it’s real obvious I’m in for a short night’s work as he’s pawing and panting on top. Catch a scuffle, all silhouetted from the Doxy’s Proxy sign. Hear a scream a few seconds later, and the John turns to holler. Must’ve seen more blood than me ‘cause he upchucked a whole lotta good gin. Little fellow runs off spindleward. Big fellow’s dead.