Brenden Gallagher
Member
To say Kavala was unpleasant was putting it lightly. Ever since he'd gotten off the plane on this lousy rock all he'd come across was hobos. Hobos on quadbikes. Hobos in sedans. Hobos taking jumper cables out of other people's ruttin' cars.
Who even does that?
Seriously? Jumper cables?
He'd had to replace those at least five times in the last week, and he'd been loaned an old surplus military truck to make the most of his trips to the mines. What kind of hobo is able to break into a military vehicle? Sure, they're several decades old but the fact of the matter remains; nce a tank, always a tank.
But these hobos, man. They were going to drive him nuts. Never had this problem in the States, no he hadn't.
"What a bunch of loons." He grumbles, blinking and shaking his head before jerking the wheel of his heavy transport back to the right. Almost nailed a hatchback.
Whoops.
That had happened the other day. NOT HIS FAULT. Muttering a curse under his breath, he was quietly glad this hadn't been a repeat of the last time he'd passed the airport. Little hatch must have been the sport variant. He was going so fast he was fading from view periodically - or at least that's how it seemed.
Next thing he knew it was scraping the side of his vehicle, flipping over a bridge and exploding several hundred feet behind him. Talk about awkward. He'd gone to look but the guy was good and dead, and EMT were unable to help.
Sometimes the hobos just got what they deserved. Like explosions.
Or bullets.
Or arrested. He was fine with any of them. So far, he'd managed to avoid that last one pretty well. Already better than the States in that regard. Yup, everything was looking good.
Other than that kidnapping...
Who even does that?
Seriously? Jumper cables?
He'd had to replace those at least five times in the last week, and he'd been loaned an old surplus military truck to make the most of his trips to the mines. What kind of hobo is able to break into a military vehicle? Sure, they're several decades old but the fact of the matter remains; nce a tank, always a tank.
But these hobos, man. They were going to drive him nuts. Never had this problem in the States, no he hadn't.
"What a bunch of loons." He grumbles, blinking and shaking his head before jerking the wheel of his heavy transport back to the right. Almost nailed a hatchback.
Whoops.
That had happened the other day. NOT HIS FAULT. Muttering a curse under his breath, he was quietly glad this hadn't been a repeat of the last time he'd passed the airport. Little hatch must have been the sport variant. He was going so fast he was fading from view periodically - or at least that's how it seemed.
Next thing he knew it was scraping the side of his vehicle, flipping over a bridge and exploding several hundred feet behind him. Talk about awkward. He'd gone to look but the guy was good and dead, and EMT were unable to help.
Sometimes the hobos just got what they deserved. Like explosions.
Or bullets.
Or arrested. He was fine with any of them. So far, he'd managed to avoid that last one pretty well. Already better than the States in that regard. Yup, everything was looking good.
Other than that kidnapping...
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