Atomic Visions

Even with the trench coat he dug out of a dumpster, Miles didn't look like he belonged in The Rusty Razor. He was too narrow, too skiddish, and not scarred enough, but he was there anyway, and he saw who he was looking for.

The guy Miles was looking for did look like he belong at The Rusty Razor. Frank Dillon, Big Steak to most, had half a dozen empty shot glasses and a burnt out cigarette in front of him. He was big and thick and mean with enough scars for a city block. Hell, looked like he lived there. With three empty stools on either side, he had a corner to himself.

Miles took the stool next to Big Steak. Dillon stopped his shot mid-sip and looked at Miles. Miles didn't notice, but the rest of the room eyed him as well.

“What do you want?” Big Steak asked. He finished the shot.

“Are you Mr. Big Steak?”

Dillon squinted at Miles, and cocked his head. He slammed a fist down on the bar. Miles jumped. The shot glasses rattled, and the rest of the room made an immediate attempt to get back to their conversations.

“Who's asking?”

Miles pushed his glasses back up his nose and looked around the room. For the first time he noticed everyone noticing him, so he leaned in close to Big Steak.

“My name is Miles. I need your help.”

Frank raised an eyebrow, shook his head, and ordered another shot of whiskey.

“I have money,” Miles said.

Frank turned back to him and snarled. Miles' eyes turned blue for a second, then back to brown. He only had enough time to utter the words “oh no.”

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