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for additional protection when
pitching their tent for an extended period. Depending on the crime, a Sweet
Sally could command quite a fee. Josh glanced up at the question, then
knotted his brows and returned to his screen.
"We don't have one."
"You don't _have_ one! What are you going to do if some lowlife
Flatlander kicks in your door, blow him away in front of God and everybody?
This isn't Foundation soil, man, you can't just sweep that shit under the rug
so easily out here."
"It was approved," Ruben said, gaining confidence. "There shouldn't be
any local law trouble, and if things go RCF" -- randomly, catastrophically
fuckola, as in a robbery attempt or demon attack -- "we can defend ourselves
with small arms, yes."
"And they approved that." Harlan tilted his head back.
"They did."
"Aw, I don't fuckin' believe this." Harlan shook his head, then examined
Tran's screen.
"Speaking of our friends in MS, a courier dropped off an eight-ball of
mighty fine powder this morning," Josh said without looking at Harlan. "Want
some?"
"No thanks,"
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