The voice that reached his ears carried with it a sense of authority that was not common to streetwalkers, which he had assumed the owner of the voice to be.
He had assumed wrong. The woman's voice gave him a sick flashback of the voice of his first boss. Filled with righteous authority that said the worst things in ways that didn't accept any argument. He sighed and suppressed the impulse to puke again. Gods knew he had nothing more left in the tank, but still, you can never be too careful.
Otrahun looked up at the woman and the face he saw matched his mental image. She was a sharp looking creature that had walked out of some fashion magazine pages on this squalid corner of the street. Her face was framed by a sharp hairstyle that could give papercuts to barbers and her nose was pointed upwards in a haughty expression. The look in her eyes said that she wanted to be here less than Otrahun wanted her to be here. She wore an expensive coat that probably cost more than Otrahun made in a month. Her skirt was cut diagonally at the knees, showing off shapely legs that had led to the wrong assumption.
A boy from the stall brought another rickety plastic chair and placed it near her table. The woman looked at the chair and her brows crinkled up in horror.
"What do you need from me? I am too drunk and too hungry to be of any use to anyone." Otrahun said to her through a slowly clearly fog that had enveloped his head.
"I need you to do a job for me, Mr. Yaway," she said while standing, getting more uncomfortable by the minute.
"Why?"
"Because the fate of the world is at stake." A slight sense of urgency leaked into her voice.
"I don't give a fuck about the world."
"Do you give a fuck about money, Mr. Yaway?"
The boy from the stall brought a bowl of noodle soup with two halves of a perfectly boiled egg by the side. The smell from the soup made his stomach grumble and his mouth watered up. He looked up at the woman through the steam rising from the soup.
"How much money are we talking about here?"
He had assumed wrong. The woman's voice gave him a sick flashback of the voice of his first boss. Filled with righteous authority that said the worst things in ways that didn't accept any argument. He sighed and suppressed the impulse to puke again. Gods knew he had nothing more left in the tank, but still, you can never be too careful.
Otrahun looked up at the woman and the face he saw matched his mental image. She was a sharp looking creature that had walked out of some fashion magazine pages on this squalid corner of the street. Her face was framed by a sharp hairstyle that could give papercuts to barbers and her nose was pointed upwards in a haughty expression. The look in her eyes said that she wanted to be here less than Otrahun wanted her to be here. She wore an expensive coat that probably cost more than Otrahun made in a month. Her skirt was cut diagonally at the knees, showing off shapely legs that had led to the wrong assumption.
A boy from the stall brought another rickety plastic chair and placed it near her table. The woman looked at the chair and her brows crinkled up in horror.
"What do you need from me? I am too drunk and too hungry to be of any use to anyone." Otrahun said to her through a slowly clearly fog that had enveloped his head.
"I need you to do a job for me, Mr. Yaway," she said while standing, getting more uncomfortable by the minute.
"Why?"
"Because the fate of the world is at stake." A slight sense of urgency leaked into her voice.
"I don't give a fuck about the world."
"Do you give a fuck about money, Mr. Yaway?"
The boy from the stall brought a bowl of noodle soup with two halves of a perfectly boiled egg by the side. The smell from the soup made his stomach grumble and his mouth watered up. He looked up at the woman through the steam rising from the soup.
"How much money are we talking about here?"
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