The bartender grunted and handed over two more knives with identical markings. “You hit the wall, that’s a buck per hole.”

“Yes, sir,” Riley nodded, tipping his hat in acknowledgement.

There was no charge for the knives. Riley was supposed to return them in mint condition before he left, or half the men present would kick his ass for trying to take off with their toys. You didn’t steal no pool balls, you didn’t steal no darts or knives. Bad manners.

He explained as much to McClane, who judged this kind of entertainment code a cool thing and promptly wanted to play, too. A dozen bull’s eyes later, Riley told him to quit showing off and took back control over the game. They switched back and forth after that, peppering the dartboard with narrow grooves. Riley bitched at McClane for using alien mind powers to cheat; McClane accused Riley of distracting him with random images of food. They made a pact to cut it out for at least one round, realized that was boring, and took up cheating again.

Hey, McClane piped up after a particularly nice shot, close your eyes.

I wanna try blind.

Riley snuffed that idea in the bud. “No knife-throwing with eyes closed in a crowded place.”

He was starting to really feel the alcohol. Shouldn’t have switched to tequila. He knew he was in no condition to do trick shots and he sure as hell wasn’t about to let a temporarily though enthusiastically sloshed alien take over the wheel and try. His daddy would’ve tanned his hide for a stunt like that.

“You from a show or something?” someone asked from behind before McClane could start wheedling.

Riley turned around and belatedly realized his and McClane’s antics had drawn quite an audience. The speaker was a short, whipcord-thin guy in biker leathers. Dirty blond hair, studded gloves peeking from a pocket. His insignia were from a Louisiana club though and Riley didn’t see any of his brothers around. He was twirling a knife of his own between his fingers as he stared at Riley with a speculative gleam in his eyes. Someone wanted to play, and Riley was happy to oblige. He was feeling nice and mellow, comfortable in his skin again now that he’d gotten used to the company.

Willie Nelson’s “Good Ol’ Boys” was playing on the jukebox, teasing out memories of good times in other bars, the smooth metal of the knife was a familiar weight in his hand, and McClane was shifting expectantly under his skin. Riley was starting to suspect his passenger might have a competitive streak.

“Nah,” he told the other man, “ain’t no professional. Just good hand-eye coordination.”

“Is that so.” The biker ambled closer, nodded at the board behind Riley. “Saw you put ten in succession dead center.”