this might be the place

When it comes down to it, the toe of John’s boot is what starts it all.

He’s just leaning, peaceful, against a piece of scrap metal, soaking up the soggy sun, and when he goes to cross one ankle over the other, the gorram toe of his boot collides with something too squishy to be part of an engine or a boat. Usually ship parts don’t say, “Tāmāde hùndàn!” neither, so John leans down to peer around a banged up compression coil and meets a pair of the bluest eyes he’s ever seen.

Both of them scramble backwards, the other guy landing on his ass in what looks to be a spectacularly painful way while John pulls out his gun and trains it on the man’s head.

“Nice to meetcha,” he says. “And you are?”