And through the door she walks: red hair, an older woman carrying herself with the bearing of one who brooks no nonsense. The blaster on her hip reinforces the idea and draws eyes to it as she walks up to the bar.
"Hooch, sonny," she says to the barwench.
"Huh?" is the unfortunate response.
"I said, 'Hooch, sonny'," she replies, "and I mean it." Suddenly she draws the blaster and shoves the muzzle in to the bartender's face. "I'm Hazel Mead, and I would like a drink, you understand."
The barkeep turns pale.
Quickly she opens the charge chamber and extracts....