A simple job

[Jaxen Marveet]

Boda

As soon as the visitor name-dropped his flamboyant young friend, Boda outright groaned. “Ah well fuck then.” It was a rather shallow sweep that assessed the young one which followed, momentarily delaying the measures that allowed him entrance to his own goddamned home. So Jaxen thought things were severe enough to send a guard dog. This one was rough around the edges, but fine enough to look at. “Tell Jaxen next time he goes to the trouble, I want a prettier puppy.” Amused, a wave of the hand granted the visitor entrance after him. It was entirely likely the fellow was lying, so on good measure, the first thing Boda did was stroll straight through the foyer, drop his shit on a table, and plant himself squarely before the home bar.

The interior of the mansion was arranged like any Victorian home. A grand staircase, ornate carvings, a parlor and reception room; heavy draperies were displayed alongside modern art pieces, many of which of an erotic theme. The bar, however, was a source of pride and joy. Boda carved the wood himself, stained and polished to a reddish gleam. He poured two glasses of strong amber liquid, and laid one out for his guest. He was well-accustomed to entertaining. Of course, one of his many gun hordes were set behind the bar. Just in case the dog thought to bite after being let inside.

The liquid burned something terrible on the back of his throat, but the warmth settling his stomach was welcome. A cough cleared his lungs, weighty lids settling on his guest. “I can handle anything they send me.” With that, he laid a revolver on the counter before shoving the glass forward, “A drink for the trouble of the drive then you can go. Unless you’re wanting to stay around, in which case give me a few minutes.” Another reason to curse the weight of age. Young ones assumed they could get it up with the snap of the fingers, and it was true. But fuck he was tired and sometimes a goddamned pill was worth the few minutes’ wait.  

So no threats, just options.