I knew this broad was trouble from the first time she stepped into the Barfing Beagle. She wore bad-girl blue jeans and a street-slut halter. On one shoulder she cradled a Denebian Antimatter rifle. Conversations stopped. Heads turned. Her free hand held a cell phone to her ear.
"Which of those ass-kissing-weasels screwed the pooch this time?" she asked.