"I think we have grown far too accustomed to saying 'it'll rip your face off,'" Dutch said, sipping on his liquor. It was the equivalent of human's whiskey in taste, but double the proof. As close to their anatomy as experts claimed as'storias to be, they were surprisingly immune to intoxicants. Didn't mean that Dutch wouldn't put his body through quite the rigmarole to get a buzz. And there were a surprisingly large amount of alcohols that would help him along in the process.
Mysin nodded. Dutch knew him from his brief time on the teaching planet of Academia 9. Mysin was an arcabellia soldier. The arcabellia were an odd sort of alien. Their spinal column didn't twist, which forced them to always face one direction. Fortunately their sensory organs moved transiently across their body. Currently Mysin was facing the bar, but his eyes and mouth were facing Dutch. The arcabellia's skin always reminded Dutch of a powered donut—no wait, fresh fallen snow. He really shouldn't think of his old friend as food. Yes, his skin was like fresh fallen snow. Mysin's eyes looked like two beetles that would shuffle across his skull to greet whomever ever speaking to him. And his mouth slithered like a caterpillar to speak. It was fair to say that the acrabellia didn't use their mouth to breath, because their larynx would be stretched thin like putty. "I do believe that is a human phrase. I've heard it many times myself. One time a fellow comrade-in-arms used it to describe a thoranyx. That is a terrible creature that paralyzes you with projectile spit and then imbeds its young into your lower chest cavity. The face is not involved. And yet they call it a 'face ripping' monster."
Dutch took another long draught of his whiskey. "So, you understand where I am coming from?" He sat the glass down on the bar. Neon green and pink lights erupted from contact, causing him to flinch. "This girl's parents, rich girl with rich parents, tells her that this canine creature she wants to befriend on Normi-9 will 'rip her face off.' Of course she ignores them. Actually, she screams at them—the little shit that she is. And she goes to pet the creature. The thing accepts her caressing for a few moments, and the moment she slides her hand against the grain of its fur—it rips her face off. Literally. There was not an iota of skin tissue left." The robot bartender refilled his beverage. "Of course her parent's butler, because they wouldn't touch the fucked up mess that was their daughter, runs at me with her. They all start yelling at me that I 'need to fix this.' And as it turns out they have skin grafts for the girl. Perfect, immaculate, long reams of skin for this little princess. I didn't know if they
knew this was going to happen, or if they feared that their daughter would just grow up ugly. I patch her back together as best I can. They of course bitch at me because I made her lips too thin." He waves his hands in the air. "Space forbid she doesn't look like a porno-vid model. And so I quit."
Mysin nodded. "So that is why you are applying for this new job?"
"Exactly," Dutch said, drinking down the amber-brown contents of his glass
"When are you supposed to meet them? Because you do know it is well into the evening?" Mysin's tone was cool and short, like most arcabellia.
"Wait, what?" Dutch pulled out his holo-organizer to find that it is well past the intended interview date. Usually the man took to interviews and the like with the exactness of a surgical knife. Then again he hadn't thought he would run into Mysin, and converse with his donut-esc friend. "Shit! Cover my tab Mysin. I'll get your drinks the next time I see you."
Dutch was gone before Mysin could utter out: "but I didn't drink anything," and, "Good luck."
- - -
We will not delve into the awkwardness that was Dutch's run. It existed, though, and there were quite a few videos taken of it. When he reached Eight Arm Trap, he slowed his gait and straightened his garb. Currently he was outfitted in a snappy, though not designer, gray suit. He also had on a long black jacket. He got chills easy. Then again he grew up on a hot planet, most anything below 'balmy' caused him to shiver. His broad shoulders, and Roman features were accented well by his choice in clothing. Unfortunately it turned into a disaster as one got lower. The suit fit a few pounds ago. While not overly clingy nor skintight, it was fair to say it was not the most flattering piece he wore. Still, Dutch pressed on past the odd array of applicants.
He stepped in front of a gawking human woman. If she wasn't going to act the part of 'enthusiastic' he sure as space would try his best. Of course, Dutch's enthusiastic face was a bit dourer than people were used too.
He shoved his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose to read the note.
Some of the laziest interviewing I've ever seen, he thought.
And I've dealt with the slotherians. They lived up to their name.
"Very well," Dutch said. "My name is Dœrtých Ïmiiækyn, most just call me 'Dutch.' I received my doctorate on Academia 9 over sixteen years ago. I further specialized in surgery and construction and maintenance of artificial limbs and organs. I served in the brief skirmish upon Academia 9 when slavers assumed that a teaching planet would be an easy target for their business. I was wounded in that battle. I had my kneecap blown out, but it was reconstructed. Still causes me pain though. So, it would be in your best interest if you didn't have me running and jumping and otherwise showing off in a non-doctoral manner.
"After that I travelled to a lot of different planets, served aboard many ships, and even was stationed in a militarized space station or two. The particulars are all on the resume I forwarded over earlier. I have a lot of experience with a lot of different medical issues. I have attended the regulatory in-services and forums on current medical breakthroughs. I also have a personal med-deck, so there is no need to purchase one. Not to, what do the humans say, 'toot my own horn,' but there are few transient medical doctors with my experience." Dutch was still a smidge drunk and so blathered on, maybe a bit incessantly. "Also as'storians are a matriarchal society. So, I'm more than used to taking orders from a woman."
Honestly he didn't know what to think of the mostly mechanical female, except that it was odd that she had a star-shaped scar over her eye. Was there some sort of psychopath roaming the galaxies with such a brand? Dutch would rather not think about that. Her partner was a bit more conventional, and a mutrarian if Dutch remembered that correctly.
This was a tough crowd. Dutch had confidence, even if sixty percent of it was of the liquid sort.