Post by Rukkora on Jul 3, 2015 9:56:30 GMT
[Thread Power Level: 6402]
Meat tastes fucking terrible. This is why Rukkora usually preferred to cook her own lunches. This meat was so overcooked, like the "chef" went out of his way to make it as tough and rubbery as possible to cover his ass. He probably didn’t want to risk giving salmonella to the massive Saiyan with the big, bloody face and wild, black mane sitting at his bar — because that’s what happens when you cook old-ass, low-quality meat rare and you have absolutely no talent at cooking or the basic intelligence to boil a tea kettle. And so this fuckwit cooked all the flavour out of the cut, absolutely ruined it. Should’ve just let her in the kitchen, that’s what Rukkora thought. Let her in and let her cook her own goddamned meal; she’d make this filthy hole of a tavern in the corner of Vegeta's nastiest interstellar truck stop look somewhat respectable.
This place wasn’t too bad, though, not to Rukkora at least. Sure, the place was unclean, the beer was piss, and most people who drop off here only do it because their pod wouldn’t reach Vegeta or they're too poor to dock somewhere better, but this orbital space station fit her personality and the whole atmosphere reminded the enourmous Saiyan of her days as a pit fighter. Smell of piss in the corner, smell of vomit on the floor, various aliens silently drinking their misery away, wallowing in it as they languish under the thumb of the Empire. Oh, Rukkora fucking loved it! And this place was so conveniently located. Just a quick shuttle from Cacumber Capital and you’d be in the shittiest space station in Vegeta’s field of gravity, used mostly for refuelling spacecrafts and storing deadbeats. This was a Saiyan-owned space station, even if it was basically a floating Raditz District full of off-worlders. None of these bastards wanted to start anything with a Saiyan like her — not even the drunk ones, usually. They knew better.
As a Saiyan, Rukkora craved battle, but a bar fight — especially a bar fight with a Saiyan — was seldom long or evenly-matched enough to qualify as a “battle”. It was like introducing a foot to an insect, really. Some jack-off would run his mouth when he shouldn’t and get vaporised for it, everyone in the bar would turn around, stare at the empty space or possibly what blackened remains sprinkle to the floor, and quietly forget about it like it was nothing. Because it was nothing. Not wanting to be bothered, that was what she liked about this place. Not to say Rukkora wasn’t personable; she would enjoy a friendly chat of some kind. It’s just that most people who aren’t already her size don’t want to talk. Those who are her size usually only talk to hold a strength-measuring pissing contest. To them, it was always a frigging contest, as though there were some kind of grand prize for being the largest motherfucker in the bar. Fortunately, none of those were around today, and her presence kept anyone else away from the seats closest to the bar. Sweet solitude, Rukkora supposed.
The bartender was a yellow-skinned, purple-spotted guy with a long, octopus-like head — common specie to find hanging around and doing various odd-jobs. They’d been around forever or something close to that. He dried off a small cup and looked to Rukkora with a forced smile, she could usually tell what those looked like. “Would you like anything else, miss?” Rukkora, of course, was busy ripping and gnashing her teeth at the horrible piece of fucking charcoal that this idiot tried to pass off as a steak, so she just shifted her eyes in his direction and kept stuffing her face. Food this ridiculously ill-prepared required something decent to wash it down. Sadly, the only available thing that passed as a beverage was the huge mug of dog-piss she’d ordered. How the hell did this guy get his job selling garbage like this? She imagined his predecessor probably got obliterated; the life expectancy of a worker on this station was hilariously low, since only the lowest-class Saiyans and aliens of comparable power would get stuck here. And poor, unintelligent people tended to be violent no matter where you go.
Rukkora drowned the rubbery flesh in horrible-tasting swill and let out a huge belch after drinking down half of it. Awful beer’s still beer, she figured. With a sigh, she wiped her lips on the back of her glove; she wasn’t wearing her armour today, just wearing the grey under-layer with the gloves and boots. She tilted her head, hair shifting behind her, and smirked at the smaller creature. “I haven’t liked anything so far,” she replied dryly. She'd made her point, no need to make a scene over it. The bartender visibly held back his irritation, bristling at the minor insult. “Very well. If you need anything please don't hesitate to ask.” Sarcasm, at least he had enough nerve to snark back. Rukkora snorted and continued to tear into her steak like a chainsaw through a litter of kittens, probably not noticing anyone unless they’d sit right beside her.
Meat tastes fucking terrible. This is why Rukkora usually preferred to cook her own lunches. This meat was so overcooked, like the "chef" went out of his way to make it as tough and rubbery as possible to cover his ass. He probably didn’t want to risk giving salmonella to the massive Saiyan with the big, bloody face and wild, black mane sitting at his bar — because that’s what happens when you cook old-ass, low-quality meat rare and you have absolutely no talent at cooking or the basic intelligence to boil a tea kettle. And so this fuckwit cooked all the flavour out of the cut, absolutely ruined it. Should’ve just let her in the kitchen, that’s what Rukkora thought. Let her in and let her cook her own goddamned meal; she’d make this filthy hole of a tavern in the corner of Vegeta's nastiest interstellar truck stop look somewhat respectable.
This place wasn’t too bad, though, not to Rukkora at least. Sure, the place was unclean, the beer was piss, and most people who drop off here only do it because their pod wouldn’t reach Vegeta or they're too poor to dock somewhere better, but this orbital space station fit her personality and the whole atmosphere reminded the enourmous Saiyan of her days as a pit fighter. Smell of piss in the corner, smell of vomit on the floor, various aliens silently drinking their misery away, wallowing in it as they languish under the thumb of the Empire. Oh, Rukkora fucking loved it! And this place was so conveniently located. Just a quick shuttle from Cacumber Capital and you’d be in the shittiest space station in Vegeta’s field of gravity, used mostly for refuelling spacecrafts and storing deadbeats. This was a Saiyan-owned space station, even if it was basically a floating Raditz District full of off-worlders. None of these bastards wanted to start anything with a Saiyan like her — not even the drunk ones, usually. They knew better.
As a Saiyan, Rukkora craved battle, but a bar fight — especially a bar fight with a Saiyan — was seldom long or evenly-matched enough to qualify as a “battle”. It was like introducing a foot to an insect, really. Some jack-off would run his mouth when he shouldn’t and get vaporised for it, everyone in the bar would turn around, stare at the empty space or possibly what blackened remains sprinkle to the floor, and quietly forget about it like it was nothing. Because it was nothing. Not wanting to be bothered, that was what she liked about this place. Not to say Rukkora wasn’t personable; she would enjoy a friendly chat of some kind. It’s just that most people who aren’t already her size don’t want to talk. Those who are her size usually only talk to hold a strength-measuring pissing contest. To them, it was always a frigging contest, as though there were some kind of grand prize for being the largest motherfucker in the bar. Fortunately, none of those were around today, and her presence kept anyone else away from the seats closest to the bar. Sweet solitude, Rukkora supposed.
The bartender was a yellow-skinned, purple-spotted guy with a long, octopus-like head — common specie to find hanging around and doing various odd-jobs. They’d been around forever or something close to that. He dried off a small cup and looked to Rukkora with a forced smile, she could usually tell what those looked like. “Would you like anything else, miss?” Rukkora, of course, was busy ripping and gnashing her teeth at the horrible piece of fucking charcoal that this idiot tried to pass off as a steak, so she just shifted her eyes in his direction and kept stuffing her face. Food this ridiculously ill-prepared required something decent to wash it down. Sadly, the only available thing that passed as a beverage was the huge mug of dog-piss she’d ordered. How the hell did this guy get his job selling garbage like this? She imagined his predecessor probably got obliterated; the life expectancy of a worker on this station was hilariously low, since only the lowest-class Saiyans and aliens of comparable power would get stuck here. And poor, unintelligent people tended to be violent no matter where you go.
Rukkora drowned the rubbery flesh in horrible-tasting swill and let out a huge belch after drinking down half of it. Awful beer’s still beer, she figured. With a sigh, she wiped her lips on the back of her glove; she wasn’t wearing her armour today, just wearing the grey under-layer with the gloves and boots. She tilted her head, hair shifting behind her, and smirked at the smaller creature. “I haven’t liked anything so far,” she replied dryly. She'd made her point, no need to make a scene over it. The bartender visibly held back his irritation, bristling at the minor insult. “Very well. If you need anything please don't hesitate to ask.” Sarcasm, at least he had enough nerve to snark back. Rukkora snorted and continued to tear into her steak like a chainsaw through a litter of kittens, probably not noticing anyone unless they’d sit right beside her.