<div class="floatleft">(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/55/83/d8/5583d8287dc20d30cf2e8c3b4d048177.jpg)</div>On the far sie of the bar, an old, old chant was rising:<br/><br/><em>Forty-three bottles of booze on a shelf, forty-three bottles of booze!</em><br/><br/>Every verse was punctuated by the<em>thrumm</em>of a stunner, and the crash of glass. The forty-three bottles (there had been the traditional one hundred, at the start of the bet), had been stacked in a sizable pyramid, after being properly and efficiently emptied by the backers of the contest.  Between each shot, the petite green-skinned girl who was the center of attention took a sip from the hundred-and-first, sitting on the table at her side.  The rules were simple enough: one sip, one shot, one bottle. In order. The stakes: five kilocreds.<br/><br/>Not that Shae had that kind of money right to hand, to pay off so she lost. But then, she didn't intend to lose.<br/><br/>The bartender, waitresses, and owners weren't entirely happy with the impromptu contest; for one thing, it made serving the other patrons a risky deal. But since the Mirialan and the others huddled around her were all armed with things much less pleasant than stunners, the service crew didn't interfere. Besides, they all had money on the game, too.<br/><br/><em>Twenty-five bottles of booze on the shelf...</em><br/><br/>It'd be easier if the bottles would stop moving, Shae thought. Not that she couldn't hit a moving target, but she usually wasn't half-drunk while doing it, and usually the things she shot at were moving in much straighter lines...<br/><br/><br/><br/><em><strong>Twelve</strong> bottles of...</em><br/><br/>Another swig, a squint, a shot. Drink and repeat....and then there were...<br/><br/><em>Three bottles of booze...</em><br/><br/>Three more easy shots, and she'd have enough valuta to get her off this worthless rock. If she messed up, she'd likely be waiting tables in this very bar for the forseeable future. Or worse, warming the mattresses in the back rooms. SO not happening. The tips for that kinda work sucked...<br/><br/><em>ONE bottle of...</em><br/><br/><em>Thrummm.</em><br/><br/>Silence. Then a few quiet groans. Impossibly, thanks to some trick of the Void, after ninety-nine perfect shots...she had missed the last and easiest one.<br/><br/>Until, with a faint groan, a puff of plaster dust, and a quickly-following crash, an old-school, rather erotic framed holoportrait detached itself from the wall, fell forward, and flattened the last remaining bottle. With a grin and a giggle, the gunslinger ticked her nonlethal weapon back in its loop at the back off her belt.  Grumbles, laughs, and arguments were already rising when she strutted with exaggerated care over to the burly, glowering Houk who had started the whole mess, and held out her hand, palm up. "Never said every shot had ta hit a<em>bottle,</em>big guy. Just one shot to knock each one down. Pay up."