Open

[iaimtomisbehave]

Who: Mal and anyone
What: Mal needs a drink. Badly.
When: After the Gentlemen
Where: The Death Match

Mal flops onto the barstool and throws his hand up to get the bartender's attention. He's so sick of death and dying, feels almost like it follows him wherever he goes, even to crazy planets called Paradisa that he's never heard of. He takes a slow sip of his drink, letting the liquor slide down his throat. Can't a man just get some peace?

Comments

[whistles_the_blues]

[He'll glance down at his big robot feet, they weren't exactly designed with dancing in mind.]

Not particularly. At least not in front of anyone.

[Wait, did he just crack a joke?]

[iaimtomisbehave]

[Was that a joke? Mal figures he'll treat it as one, and smile.]

Do some dancin' on your own, then?

[whistles_the_blues]

I might tap my foot to a beat from time to time.

[iaimtomisbehave]

Understandable, understandable. Any particular kind of music you like?

[whistles_the_blues]

Most kinds. If I had to pick I'd go for something along the line of Jazz.

[iaimtomisbehave]

I haven't heard much jazz, I have to say. More of a bluegrass man myself, fiddle and mandolin and the like.