Sweetheart-Darlin'

by Toasterman

Jim Raynor popped the cork on a bottle of whiskey and drank it all in one long drink, because he was a drunk. He used to be a colonial marshal but now he was just a drunk. He felt the whiskey burn its way down his throat—which was super-cliché of the whiskey, but the liquid couldn't help it. Then he threw the bottle across the room.

4. Chapter 4

Sweetheart-Darlin'

Chapter Four

"Char was hard, man." Raynor popped the tab on a can of beer and drank it all at once. This was a little fast, but it was a normal-sized can, so he felt like it was okay. It was important to start off slow. He drank seven more in quick succession.

"Indeed," agreed Zeratul. He was the Prelate of the Dark Templar, which didn't mean fuck all to Raynor. In fact, it didn't mean fuck all to Zeratul, either. All it really meant was that he had a higher 'indeed' quota than most Protoss. He had to say at least six 'indeeds' in every conversation, otherwise he lost his Protoss privileges. "It was a difficult journey, but we sauntered on as brothers."

"You want a beer?" Raynor shook his head. "Ah, shit, Zeratul. I forgot you don't have a mouth. No way you can drink a beer without no mouth."

"Incorrect. Indeed, I possess no mouth, but we Protoss have other ways of consuming alcohol."

"Whatever you say, pal." Raynor tossed him a can, and grabbed a triple-X jug of moonshine for himself. "I'm just gonna get tanked."

"Indeed." Zeratul stood from his seat and pulled off his robed undershorts. He popped the tab on the can and took a breath.

Raynor stood up. "Whoa, whoa! The fuck is going on!?"

"Drinking," said Zeratul, and jammed the can up his butthole. Raynor heard the alien's cheeks clench by the way the can crumpled in the Dark Templar's powerful sphincter. Protoss sphincters were toothed, designed to facilitate the intake of solid food in case of a lack of photosynthesis. There was a wet sucking noise, a butthole gurgle, and the destroyed can plopped out onto the deck. It looked like an origami swan.

"I don't even—"

"Indeed you do not." Zeratul grabbed another can. "This beverage is quite enjoyable. I now understand why Honored Fenix chooses to associate with you on such regular occasion."

"I can't watch this." Raynor turned away, gunning his vulture to spin it about face. Crew members dove for cover as the forked prow knocked over two gaming tables and a crate of poorly-stored ammunition.

Horner entered. "Sir, you can't be driving that around in here anymore. It's a hazard."

"Indeed." Zeratul gave a psychic grunt that bred brief nightmares in the minds of everyone in the bar. "Vehicles are meant for outside use, not unlike an outside."

"Exactly!" said Horner.

"Or like an outside lawnmower," said Raynor.

Horner frowned. "There isn't really an inside equivalent for a lawnmower, sir."

"If you seen my old lady's bush, you'd know just how wrong you are."

"Sir, please." Horner looked past Raynor at Zeratul. "Are you drinking through your asshole?"

"INDEED."

The Hyperion sailed on.