[Millitimed to the afternoon]
Tom finally has bullets. Which means finally -- finally -- he can get in some target practice without worrying about wasting ammunition.
"Hey, Bar? I need some targets. For shooting practice." Beat. "Shooting with a gun. I mean, with bullets."
What? It's Milliways. Maybe people go out back and target practice with beams they shoot from their eyes.
Bar, exuding amusement, provides several life-size cardboard cutouts. Tom stares a little. "Thanks. I think."
Outside, he sets up well away from the bar, takes a deep breath, and reminds himself that some instincts don't disappear even if they're not used for a year.
BANG BANG BANG.
". . . Crap. I'm dead."
Aim, apparently, isn't one of them.
[ooc: Here for about two hours Going, going, gone; slowtimes welcome! Man, could this post futz around with time any more?]
"Hey, Bar? I need some targets. For shooting practice." Beat. "Shooting with a gun. I mean, with bullets."
What? It's Milliways. Maybe people go out back and target practice with beams they shoot from their eyes.
Bar, exuding amusement, provides several life-size cardboard cutouts. Tom stares a little. "Thanks. I think."
Outside, he sets up well away from the bar, takes a deep breath, and reminds himself that some instincts don't disappear even if they're not used for a year.
BANG BANG BANG.
". . . Crap. I'm dead."
Aim, apparently, isn't one of them.
[ooc: Here for about two hours Going, going, gone; slowtimes welcome! Man, could this post futz around with time any more?]