Rule 1 of looting: never stick around the scene of the crime, especially with a bag full of shit you've just swiped off the shelves. Marty should've learned this by now, but he's always been a little slow to catch onto life lessons. Hey, it's part of his charm. So, rather than pack up the booze and run (what booze he can fit into his backpack, anyway. Sadly less than he'd like), Marty lingers, leaning against one of the shelves-- just around the corner from the entrance-- as he chugs a bottle of pink stuff.
No, it's not Pepto-Bismol. Whatever it is-- he doesn't know what language is on the label; it's like the love child of Russian and Sanskrit-- it doesn't taste half-bad. There's a smokey sort of aftertaste. Totally unexpected.
Shit's strong, too.
He tilts his head back and takes a good, long drink. At first, he pays no notice to the large man in leathers-- mainly because he doesn't realize the other man's even here. It's not until he lowers the bottle to his side, tapping it against his leg lazily, and starts around the corner that he spots the stranger.
Well, shit.
"Hey."
He motions with his hand, the one holding onto the neck of the bottle. It's better than swinging his pipe around and accidentally hitting the goods, anyway.
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No, it's not Pepto-Bismol. Whatever it is-- he doesn't know what language is on the label; it's like the love child of Russian and Sanskrit-- it doesn't taste half-bad. There's a smokey sort of aftertaste. Totally unexpected.
Shit's strong, too.
He tilts his head back and takes a good, long drink. At first, he pays no notice to the large man in leathers-- mainly because he doesn't realize the other man's even here. It's not until he lowers the bottle to his side, tapping it against his leg lazily, and starts around the corner that he spots the stranger.
Well, shit.
"Hey."
He motions with his hand, the one holding onto the neck of the bottle. It's better than swinging his pipe around and accidentally hitting the goods, anyway.
"Store's closed, man."