"That's such a hassle."

"Well if it weren't a hassle other people woulda stolen the money first and then we wouldn't be able to now would we?"

"...guess that makes sense."

"What if we run into Zash the Stampede, though?" says another henchman.

"I've told you already," replies boss guy, rubbing his temples. "It's just some damn rumours, he's always five places at the same time, he's not gonna be here."

"But what if he is?"

"Why me?" he says, looking up at the sky. "Why do I have to deal with these people?"

"Coz you pay us," says henchman #3 from where she's sitting in the shade reading a magazine.

"Not talking to you."

"Who're you talkin' to? It's just us here."

"I'm talking to myself."

"I think the sun's frying his brain."

"Bold of you to assume he has a brain to be fried."

The one being called boss points a chonky double-barreled pistol at #3. "I'm going to shoot your tongue off."

She sticks her tongue out to lick the tip of her thumb so she can turn the page of her magazine without looking up at the gun. "You're paying us to do a job for you. If you shoot us you don't get the job done. Basic client-employer relations, see."

"I am going to go pee," he says, groaning in frustration and resting his gun against his shoulder.

"Go downwind, I don't wanna be smelling your pee all day long."

That evening Zash goes back to the same pub, wondering if John will be there again. He might in fact need his credit chit back eventually.

"You! Alphabet boy!" calls Hilda.

"Alphabet boy," he repeats, nearly choking on his spit.

"Did ya really give that useless lump your chit?"

"Not lumpy," calls John from where he's resting his forehead on the table.

"Lent. I lent that useless lump my chit."

"'M bein' bullied," he whines.

"Are ya very rich? Very dumb? Both?"