Into the Cage, Chummer
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You’d know the sound of that engine anywhere, and after all this time you’re even able to read the way it purrs and growls and spits to its drivers’ emotions. The RV with no completely legal reason to need that engine pulls into its preferred parking space and you see the driver’s side door swing open and two booted feet hit the ground behind it. You don’t need to see to know the owner of those boots and this RV’s popped a beer bottle open on a hole in the door frame—a bottle that’s drained and politely tossed out as she steps over the threshold before you can complain about her bringing booze on the premises. She kisses her fingers and touches the battered Route 66 sign hung up by the door—a novelty item for the other patrons, but a holy patron of its own to her. You’ve already got her drink poured as she climbs onto the barstool and tosses you a credstick she’s never paid with before. A regular two stools over asks for new stories and she launches into one about an alien abduction she swears she saw the last time she was flying down out on old I-10 and you shake your head. You know she’s got better stories than that, if you know how to ask for them.