Angry Jasper-Three

In a flash the fugitive grabbed a metal stool and flung it at Jasper with deadly accuracy. Jasper rolled to one side and fired at the same instant. The ARP round was a glancing blow, leaving a nasty burn across the man’s chest before smashing a fist size hole in the wall. The room filled with the sour stink of singed flesh and hair. Howling madly he charged Jasper. It was all Jazz could do to keep out of his way as he cleaved through tables and chairs like an angry Rhino.

Jasper dove and tumbled end over end and came up behind him. He aimed the ARP carefully before the man could turn. Two round struck home to either side of the man’s spine, cauterizing two neat holes clean through to the waning twilight beyond. The fugitive howled in pain, the wounds, which would dropped a normal man, only served to make the hybrid sod angrier.

“Damned hybrids!” Jasper growled.

He hated hybrids. Jazz cursed under his breath. He would never have taken this job had he known up front. God damn it, someone could have warned him! A body just never knew what he was getting with one. Might be some bloke cross bred with elephant DNA for construction work, or a wolf for warfare. Hell, once he nearly bought the farm tangling with a hybrid bred for underwater work with a hammerhead shark. Still had scars on his ass and back as the guy tried to bite Jazz to death. The way this one took those last two rounds Jasper sardonically thought he must be part Bronto-friggin-saurus!

“Uhgg!” The guy slammed Jasper in the ribs just as he was coming to his feet. It was a cruel upper-cut, from a fist that felt like a '74 Buick. The unmistakable crack of shattering bone filled the bar as several of Jazz' not-so-gracefully aging ribs took the full brunt. Jasper sailed half way across the room and came down hard, gasping for air. The ARP-2 leapt from his hand and skidded across the floor.

“Now you gonna die, Bounty hunter!”

The hybrid’s mammoth foot eclipsed the light and threw a shadow across Jasper’s face, from his forehead to the middle of his chest. The way the guy had cleaved through the sturdy tables Jasper felt sure the guy would crush the life out of him in one or two good stomps.

That’s it, thought Jasper. Time seemed to pause. He felt like a stone tossed into a deep well, waiting for the eventual ker-plunk of cold dark death. He was frozen, waiting for the inevitable. Hell, he almost welcomed it. Not that it mattered much. Just a miserable end to a miserable life. Besides. He was tired. No, he was damn tired of chasing scum back and forth across the solar system for a few thousand credits here and there, swilling away his lamentable heart on cheap booze and space tramps. What did it matter anyway, with the world going to hell in a hand-basket anyone foolhardy enough to remain on Earth was living on borrowed time. Jasper had no home to speak of, no kin, and hadn’t achieved any sort of wealth. About all he owned outright was a beat up old ship with a couple billion miles on it.

“Squish you like a bug,” the fugitive laughed murderously.

Suddenly jasper caught his breath, enough to grab the guy’s foot and swung a foot squarely into the guy’s gonads. The hybrid shrieked in pain and managed a good stomp despite, smashing a hole in the floor beside Jasper’s head.

Jasper made a break for the ARP-21, but came up a little too soon. An upper cut from the hybrid sent him flying again. Thankfully a table was there to break his fall. It left him even farther from the weapon now. Jasper calculated his chances of reaching it the hybrid bore down on him again. It was hopeless. Jasper was trapped, staring into burning red eyes hungry for blood.

“Gonna eat your liver,” Bounty hunter. “Any last words?”

“Gotta say,” Jasper began, “ you got a face only a mother could love.”

“Huh?”

“Mother Godzilla, that is!”

The fugitive erupted in laughter. A deafening roar abruptly eclipsed that laughter. The fugitive’s head detached in a great spray of blood and flesh and neck bone. The head tumbled lazily through the air, it’s expression one of confusion more than surprise. It bounced off the wall and landed between Jasper’s open legs, those bloody eyes staring in disbelief. With that the fugitive blinked one last time before life left those eyes forever. The body teetered momentarily then pitch sideways, landing with a building shaking thud. Jasper looked up into the twin barrels of an old fashioned 12 gauge shotgun. The bartender stood at the other end of those twin barrels. His finger tightened on the trigger.

“Somebody’s gonna have to pay for this mess,” he said.

Jasper swallowed hard. “This here fugitive is wanted in three zones. Got a hefty prize on his head.”

“Well there’s the head. Unless I get some compensation I’m gonna put it up behind the bar, right next to yours.”

“Don’t worry,” said Jasper. “I’m good for it.”

“You’re good for it now,” the bartender said unequivocally, “or I’ll let go this other barrel.”

“No need.” Jasper reached into a pocket and pulled his small credit pod. The shiny black body fit neatly in his palm. It was badly scuffed and the tiny screen was cracked and blank. He shook it once and frowned at the paltry number of credits in his account. The bartender snatched it away and studied it a moment.

“That’ll do,” he said, quickly tapping in his account number. He kept the shotgun trained on Jasper until the transfer was complete. When it was finished he tossed the pod onto Jasper’s chest.

Jazz stood with some effort, wincing and holding his busted ribs. The bartender cleared the plasma clip from the ARP and kicked the weapon over to Jasper. Jazz stared at it for a moment, weighing how much he wanted it against the excruciating prospect of bending over to pick it up.

“We’ll call it even,” said Jazz, pulling a paper sack from his belt. He stuffed the gruesomely disembodied head inside, opening the sack and tapping the head inside with the tip of his boot. Jazz limped across the busted up tavern towards the door, cradling his wounded ribs with one arm, and holding the sack with the other.

“We’ll call it justifiable homicide if I ever see you around here again,” the bartender grumbled.

Jazz started to say something, something smug and witty. He stared at the bartender for a long moment trying to come up with something to take the bartender down a notch or two. The bartender pointed with the shotgun.

“Got something you want to tell me, Bounty hunter?”

“I got nothing,” Jazz sighed, thinking better of a wise comment, which wasn't like him. Jazz always had a comeback. He was always quick with a verbal shot, even though it tended to get him trouble more often than not. He was losing his touch, he thought, and that felt worse than the pain in his chest. It wouldn’t be that way come morning, but for now that’s the way it was.