Corliss sneers at Ardiss and slowly lowers the weapon in his left hand, but doesn't holster it. "Well.
I'm going to go play some bloody music."
<So we can go and get shot in the back?> Michael exclaims silently.
<We're not going to get shot,> Corliss replies flatly. He hops off the bar seat and walks over to the jukebox, flipping through the choices. Most of the items inside the machine are records--33s, 45s, even a few 78s. But there are also CDs, minidiscs, digital hookups, and a number of very strange looking, blinking devices. There's even what looks like a purple, glowing pumpkin, wired like a living thing into one of the sides of the jukebox's innards.
Corliss puts his free hand to his mouth, contemplating.
<Aw, come on, man, could you be more predictable?>
The Yeerk grins giddily and punches in something nostalgic by some band from his host's hometown.
He walks back to the bar and sits back down, putting the safety back on the weirdly modified Dracon.
"So," he exhales, "looks like you're behaving so far, Ardiss. That's good. Maybe we can both put the toys away and the heckles down, eh? I'll try and be a good boy if you do."
