A simple job

[Jaxen Marveet]

Boda

Boda’s growing concern was held behind leathery cheeks that otherwise revealed little, but other mannerisms gave away a foreboding sense of alarm. Jaxen was over-protective, but the caliber of man currently occupying his living room was exaggeratingly calm. Not here for a paycheck, but for the fight to come. A man selective about the fights he engages. Boda was no fool. He shoved sticks up the government’s ass for decades and he assumed he would find himself in the bottom of a dumpster someday. So long as he was dead by then, who the fuck cared; corpses didn’t decorate their graves.

In the end, he rubbed his chin thoughtfully before returning the revolver to its place.
“I’m going to bed. These old bones want a feather pillow and silk pajamas. Maybe they’re the last ones I’ll ever wear. I might as well enjoy it while I can.” The sarcastic façade bricked up his concern until it was imprisoned far from the surface. A casual wave offered the lower-most floor of his home to the – he stopped on the first step on the stairs, “What’s your name again?” Then a shrug followed. He’d likely forget it by morning anyway.