A little hint into the past of the next gunfighter, Lance Presston.

 

Reaching into his pocket, for the near empty cred chip his father had given him, he realized with more than a little shock that he’d left it at the bar.  It was the one thing he kept from the bastard who raised him.  His father wasn’t an altogether bad man, just a misguided one with a penchant for bad luck.  Far too often, they’d gotten into scrapes where men had to die.  To his regret, it was him doing most of the killing.  When the old man would get on the wrong side of a loan shark, or some other low-life bastard, he’d have to go save him.  More often than not, it meant putting a laser beam through the kidnapper’s head.  After having a particularly violent argument with his old man, Lance told him to never contact him again.  So, when his father was captured again, the old man kept his word and died rather than contact him.  Now all he had left was that chip, and there wasn’t a chance in hell of him leaving the grungy, rundown spaceport without it.  

 

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