“Age sure as hell hasn’t affected his hearing,” J.B. groused, causing Mildred to laugh as the rest of the group took up positions around the ornate bench.
“Look same,” Jak said, peering at J.B.’s glasses.
“They are, practically. Got a backup pair, too.”
“Let’s see the backups,” Ryan said, rubbing his still aching shoulder. “I want to know what my duel with a bot paid for.”
“Bot?” Doc echoed. “Ah, yes, the killer robot.”
J.B. had hesitated, and now Mildred spoke for him. “Well, Ryan, the backup lenses and frames are much larger than this pair.”
“So?”
“So, he doesn’t think his backup pair of specs are very becoming to a man with his features.”
“Oh, now I’ve got to see them,” Ryan said. The rest of the group voiced their agreement. Sighing loudly, J.B. made a show of searching through each and every pocket of his leather jacket before removing a black padded case.
Off came the wire spectacles, which he placed gently on the tabletop.
He snapped open the new black case and removed an oversize pair of purple frames and tinted lenses, which he angrily thrust on his frowning face. “There. Happy?”
“You bet,” Ryan replied, trying hard not to laugh. No one else looking at the bizarre sight shared Ryan’s tact. The rest of the friends broke out in guffaws of amusement.
“Laugh all you want. I think he looks like a rock star,” Mildred stated proudly, taking J.B.’s arm.
“Oh, hell,” J.B. said from between clenched teeth.
The Armorer’s discomfort was eased when Mildred noticed Dean’s new attire. The boy was wearing a black T-shirt featuring a mass of silvery storm clouds and lightning superimposed over a large, unblinking single eye. The Truth Is Out There was at the bottom of the shirt’s hem, and on the back, in a broken-typewriter font, another slogan read Trust No One.
“Krysty and Dad liked this one,” Dean said, turning and modeling for J.B. and Mildred.
Krysty shrugged. “What can I say? The message struck me right funny. Guess if you keep looking long enough, you can find anything.”
“Well, I liked the back,” Ryan said, picking up the lull. “Trust No One might seem paranoid to some, but I decided that was a sentiment I could agree with without any debate.”
J.B. agreed. “Damn good advice for any halfway intelligent citizen of Deathlands.”
Mildred wrinkled her nose. “True, most of the time. Otherwise it’s kind of negative, don’t you think?”
“Hell, it beat the other shirts that fat guy was selling. What were they, Dean?”
“Um, most of them had a yellow mutie with a spiked head saying Eat My Shorts. He had a lot of those. None of them had ever been worn, he said. Had a few with a man dressed like a bug. Some with guys playing predark sports, like basketball. Triple dull. This was the best of the bunch.”
“I can attest to that,” Doc agreed. “That store owner was an idiot, and his collection of moldy paper useless.”
“Tried to get Jak to take him a shirt, but he wasn’t interested.”
“Like clothes no message,” Jak replied. “Wanted black shirt. All had stupid shit pix.”
THE INTERIOR of the eatery had been designed to replicate what some predark advertising executive had distilled into being a Mexican dining experience. There were no primary colors to be seen. The dominant hue was brown. All shades of brown. Dark brown walnut. Light brown walls hinting at adobe stone. Off-white flooring with a grit pattern of brown dots broken up by horizontal and vertical chestnut brown lines.
The tables matched the decor, but the chairs, which were standard-issue steel folding chairs, had obviously been replaced at one time or another. The front counter was made of stainless steel, low slung, with indentations where automated cash registers once rested. Now hungry patrons waited in line to verbally give their order to a single cashier.
Both cashier and her small comp console were encased inside a massive armaglass sec booth.
A slot allowed the passing of jack. After payment the order was called back to the hidden cooks in the rear. Once the order was given, a customer then was allowed to go down the counter to await his or her food.