The hall door is kicked open with such force that the elderly humanoid male parked at his walker is slammed across the faded linoleum floor, into a gaggle of decrepit, blue feathered owl-women.
The women squawk and flap in outrage, until they see the one who did the kicking standing in the door frame, his long, jagged shadow stretching across the senior life-form assisted living center floor.
His face is grizzled, remorseless, and adorned with a curled mustache. He wears a long coat, black, just like his boots, slacks, suspenders—and soul. Dark, immaculate hair, parted to the left with all the precision that a healthy dollop of pomade can provide, yet hidden safely beneath the understated sophistication of a black bowler hat.
Underneath the black coat is mysterious badass gear, and underneath that badass gear is a badass man. A man’s man. 6’3”, 230, as strong as a team of horses. His eyes are intense. Blood shot. Angry. He could punch a planet, make love to a battleship, and julienne an asteroid.
He is: Nick Tesla, Intergalactic Bounty Hunter.
From the sleeves of his coat— hands. On those hands—copper ringed gloves. In one—a fist. In the other, a brown paper bag bearing an insignia foreign to this planet, something gold and curved.
Tesla crimps the tip of his mustache to a fine point with his open hand, then, “You, soon-deads. Where is he?”
“Hoo?” Squawk the sagging blue feathered owl-women.
“Don’t waste my time,” barks Tesla. He walks forward and slams a boot onto the neck of the elderly humanoid squirming on the floor. “You know who.” Tesla twists his boot. Bones crunch. The squirming stops.
Wide owl eyes dart nervously. One of the owl-women audibly defecates.
“Mr. Tesla!” Interrupts a senior life-form living center nurse. “Mr. Telsa, can I help you?”
Tesla slowly turns and looks over at the nurse. A she. A Grunairan with green skin and lots of it, and all in the right places—even the tail.
Tesla smirks in approval, plucks a half smoked cigar from his jacket pocket and rests it between his lips. The lights flicker in the center’s hall and a humming noise fills the air. From the tip of Tesla’s coopper covered index finger and thumb comes a small, arching bolt of electricity that heats the cigar to a red glow.
Tesla puffs once. Twice. “What’s your name, kitty-cat?” He asks, staring at the ample chest of the Grunarian.
“My Name is,”—She makes a series of noises that the human register can’t replicate.
“Nurse Kitty it is,” says Tesla, puffing. “I’ve been wandering this morgue for an hour. Where the hell am I?”
“This is wing 1973B.” Says Kitty.
“Is he here?”
“Yes. Your father is down the hall. First door on the left. We moved him here this morning after the… incident.”
“Hrrrmm…” Tesla looks down the hall, past a floating head suspended in a jar or purple liquid and what looks like a giant hamster in a space suit. Tesla grips the brown more bag tightly and takes a step forward.
“Oh, and, uh, Mr. Tesla…” Says Kitty.
Tesla stops, but does not turn. “Ya?”
“There’s uh…no smoking here.”
Now Tesla turns. “That so?” He frowns, puffs his cigar one a final time before pulling it from his mouth and flicking it into the nearest ancient blue feathered owl-woman who’s dry, withered feathers instantly burst into flames.
“Hope you like yours extra crispy.” Says Tesla, as he falls back into stride.
—
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