The sky over the space port was like a mixture of mashed up peas and carrots dripped into a rusty paint can. The atmosphere felt gritty, people moved like zombies. Everyone seemed as if they were all awaken very early in the morning by an obnoxious motorcycle with an extremely short exhaust system. That’s how people are on the planet Chatsubo, especially the denizens of Space Port. Dingy space pirates usually hock their wares around the woeful hours of 2am and 4am. Their hands were always in their pockets, one thumb tracing an open glass knife blade. There was no law in Space Port. The various gangs ran the show.
The space pirate gang, The Skulls ran a bar on the western end of Space Port. The last time the sheriff was there, he left with a broken nose. Blood dripping in a trail as he left, hands covering his mashed nose, moustache caked with dried heart juice. The shot that left the sheriff running was courtesy of Big Cretch, the meanest and biggest of the Skulls, who has a fresh cut across his eye. He tended the bar and also ran the fencing operation at the back of the measly saloon. The sheriff stopped by the bar while on duty, he was investigating the murder of little Pete, of the rival gang The Jokers. He was last seen near The Skull’s bar. The sheriff apparently asked too many questions and pissed off Big Cretch who socked him good between the nostrils. Witnesses in the bar didn’t say crap.
A reporter was in there the next day. “So what happened here last night?” The reporter asked a skinny man, probably in his 40s. “Drinks and darts, that’s it.” He responded. “How about you, what did you see last night?” He asked a woman with large earrings. “Listen dear, I wasn’t even here last night, why don’t you ask someone else.” She said. He wasn’t getting any information out of these people, the typical denizens of Space Port, folks of few words and loud actions. This case, like the murder of little Pete, wasn’t going anywhere.
Little Pete was a pretty notorious smuggler of just about anything. He specialized in expensive cheeses, wine and peanuts, a strange, but lucrative group of imports. He also deals in various types of stim software, illegal in Space Port along with many other places. Little Pete was feeling pretty ballsy when, last week, he decided to deal right outside of The Skull’s bar. He didn’t get many customers before Big Cretch came up to him and knocked him hard on the top of his head. Little Pete floundered on the ground for a bit and then came up with his glass knife. The first two slashes missed the moutaneous chest of Big Cretch, but the third cut a line across his eye, barely missing his lens. The big man flinched and then reached for his own knife. The two battled it out for ten minutes, a long time when you’re in a knife fight. Little Pete dodged and swung his blade, slicing up Big Cretch’s legs, but the behemoth kept standing. He swung again, this time his arm was caught by the big meat glove of Big Cretch. He then stabbed little Pete twice and the fight was over. He stood over the body, panting and bleeding. He called for some Skulls to come out back. They helped him into the bar bathroom while a couple stood over the body of little Pete.
“What should we do with this guy?” One Skull asked the other.
“Lets dump him in one of the rubbish ships. They’ll dump him along with other trash near the sun.” The Skull responded.
The next morning little Pete was dumped 2 miles from the sun where his body was incinerated.