Calliope Cervantes eyed the cute guard sitting next to her at the bar. She had a soft spot for a man in uniform; it was roughly located between her navel and her knees.

“Tough day?” she asked coyly.

“I swear,” he said, staring into his drink, “I swear that if I have to deal with one more smogging dinosaur, I am going to turn in my tasegun.”

“Poor baby,” she murmured.

“You know what the worst part is?” he said. “Their breath. Hot, sticky, rotting corpse breath.”

“Sounds awful.”

“And the shits they take! Absolutely unbelievable.”

“I’ll bet.”

He knocked back his drink and slammed the empty glass on the counter. “If I could get my hands on the guy that figured out how to clone the damn things, I would just…” His hands formed a circle as if he was imagining a neck inside them.

“Just what?” Calliope had edged closer and was batting her eyelashes at him.

The guard finally noticed her. “I would,” he said hesitantly, “show him who’s boss.”

“Why don’t you show me?” she purred.

A few drinks later, he did.