Here's a scene from my latest novel, Galaxy Rand, which is a space opera and my homage to pulp fiction:
I was sunk so damned deep in those grim thoughts that I let my guard down for a fraction of a microsecond. As I stepped into the one-man lift, someone else slid in right behind me. The door closed.
I whirled to face my unexpected and unwelcome company. From force of habit, my right hand reached for my blaster. My holster was empty. I let out a colorful cussword, flattened my back against the lift's far wall, and got ready to kick the bloody bastard's lights out. But a one-man lift's damned close quarters for hand to hand combat!
My whole body tense, I waited for my new "friend" to make the first move. The guy just stood there, grinning like an idiot. "Hello, Rand. Heard a lot about you. Now we finally get to meet, face to face."
"Who the bloody hell are you?" I demanded, giving him my worst glare, still on guard and prepared to fight for my life if need be.
He raised both hands to show me they were empty. Moving with care, so I wouldn't misinterpret his actions, his right hand went to the breast pocket of his shirt. He gave it a sharp tap with his index finger. Where the pocket'd been, a holo-badge appeared.
I groaned in disgust. "ISF! Are you fleggin kidding me?"
Should've known! Who but a dumb-ass ISF 'gent would be stupid enough to follow somebody like me into a one-man lift? Nobody, unless they were bloody crazy!
@copyright 2014
Hope you enjoyed this little tidbit. Keep on reading and keep on writing!
MRTighe
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