“Argghh! Grahggh!”

It’s Tuesday night at Thai on the Nosebag. We’re between curry courses when the Colonial Space Marine wigs out. That happens, since Jarheads’re often performance enhancer addicts with posttraumatic stress.

This specimen’s waving a pulse rifle around and cycling the trigger. No effect, the Nosebag is completely ray-shielded.

The bartender, Morty, is a Sirian Slime Slug. A stainless steel shot glass arcs over the bar and *tinks* from the Marine’s helmet.

The Marine slaps his rifle to “Kinetic,” whirls, and blasts Morty.

Sirian Slimes are enormously elastic. Morty stretches for several feet, slowing and stopping the bullet. When he snaps back, he propels it at Mach 3, ricochets the round from concrete floor and into the Marine’s space crotch armor.

Every male in the room takes an imaginary, sympathetic kick to the balls. Several groan audibly.

The Marine’s eyes roll up; he makes an expressive “meeeeep” very like a steam kettle whistle and face-plants the floor.

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158 words. Inspired by this week’s Flash! Friday prompt (Hitchhiker’s Guide, adventure, an odd restaurant).