táifēng --> typhoon
|| /̵͇̿̿/’̿’̿ ̿—;; “It’s not fucking rocket science. Need me to speak slower?
Sprecken ze English, shitstain?”
|| /̵͇̿̿/’̿’̿ ̿—;; “When the fuck is monsoon season again? I’m already sick'a your shit-eatin’ faces gawking at me.”
|| /̵͇̿̿/’̿’̿ ̿—;; “From fuckin’ freezing temperatures to monsoon-style winds. Nature’s such a temperamental bitch.”
|| /̵͇̿̿/’̿’̿ ̿—;; “Alright, why the fuck is it so fuckin’ cold? Feels like fuckin’ Manhattan down here. I’ll beat the shit outta whoever stuck a stick'a dynamite up Mother Nature’s ass.”
|| /̵͇̿̿/‘̿'̿ ̿–;; “It’s too… fuckin’… hot–”
Labored breathing could be heard between groans fit for a child – albeit one with an incredibly foul mouth. There’d never really been a mother around to wash it out with soap, after all.
The designated gunslinger of The Lagoon Company had resigned herself to reading the latest TV Guide as if it were a classic; it was too damn hot to kill some poor sap, much less get off her ass to go drink with Eda in the Rip-Off Church. All that got her last time was a shootout and another job – with little payout, no less.
As per usual at this point in the week, Dutch was about his business – business that was none of her own, and she thoroughly enjoyed keeping it that way. Her bitching had been just enough to “persuade” Rock to run whatever the hell errands he had deemed important on his own; with Benny holed up in the ship with better air and the breeze off the sea, it just left Revy to hold down the fort.
Alone, sweaty, and free to complain to her heart’s content; it was difficult to decide whether that thrilled her or vexed her. Regardless, the silence was abruptly broken by the shuffle of feet, causing her to turn the page in her “novel” with a sharper-than-necessary snap of the thin paper.
“We’re closed – make it worth my time, and maybe we’ll open. How’s a fifty sound? 'Cause it sounds damn good to me.”
