Conversations and such during break times.

Chateau de bladder, I growled as I gurgled down a bottle of toxic meltdown that was knows as beer on this god forsaken place.

Cheers, said the nun, she gave me a pious wink and chugged down two bottles of (nuclear waste) beer.

Our dear nun, fellow mercenary with rules and other such fancies, killed only viscious men. No women or children she'd say. A nun to the core.

  She ran an orphanage, which would have been impoverished had it not been for her mercenary life. It's an orphanage not a cemetery, she'd often say while disemboweling poor souls.

 

How do you resist temptation on the road?  I asked her that balmy night, as we sat drawing Olympic Rings on wooden bar tables, with the bottoms of our cold bottled pestilence. 

I'm a nun, child. she said unblinking, unthinking. 

And then, with a slight humph and a lazy eye roll she told me that she lets her bush (down there) overgrow to the point it serves as her chastity belt.

Not bad,  I winked back, and we clinked our bottles of cool cool (blight) beer.