Steve felt her foot hit his nuts, and yelled out. The next thing he knew, he was flying through the air, and hitting the concrete wall behind him. He fell to the ground, dazed. When he came around, the red car was rolling off, and he seemed to be alone. He got up, his body acheing. He seemed to have a concussion, as well as a busted rib or two. He went to the phone, and picked it up.
"Some help you are!" he said, then shut it.
He walked to his shotgun, pciked it up again, and walked to his car. Time to head home, take a shower, then get some sleep. He would definitly need to figure this mess out later, in the daylight.
(Steve out)
(lock please!)
Bar-hopping (open)
Steve Rowland walked into the bar, eyeing up the crowd. He decided that this place, the same one he and Trin had visited on that fateful night, was a good "fishing hole." He walked to the bar, and ordered a triple shot of Jack Daniels, and told the bartender to leave the bottle. He then looked around, trying to find a good-looking girl who might be interested in a one-night stand. He was wearing jeans, a dark-blue t-shirt, a tan Carhart jacket, and his combat boots. He had pulled his dogtags out of his shirt and had them in plain view, and he had traded in the Desert Eagle for a Beretta M92, with wood inlay on the butt and a semi-automatic mechinism. His USAF cap was pulled down low over his eyes, and he sat with his back to the bar, making himself noticable, but not too noticeable.
A band was playing up on the stage, and the dace floor was mildly crowded. The music was crappy, but Steve didn't care. He was here to drink, drink, and maybe forget his troubles. However, after a few refills, Steve found his foot tapping to the beat of the music. Maybe this night wouldn't be as depressing as he thought.
Steven
16 years ago