To be honest, the profession of mercenary did not exactly mesh with a fast-food restaurant.
Who were the usual customers at a fast-food joint? Salaried workers rushing to work in the morning, truck drivers stopping by to relieve themselves, middle schoolers looking for somewhere to chat with classmates after school, and police officers on patrol dropping in for donuts.
For mercenaries, who lived with their lives on the line, most people in this line of work faced immense psychological pressure. The simplest ways to blow off steam were drinking, whoring, gambling, and the like, but a fast-food restaurant offered far too little stimulation.
Most fast-food restaurants did not have hard liquor licenses and could only sell beer. As restaurants, they were expected to be clean and brightly lit, with no dark corners for people to hide from prying eyes. The customers generally did not have much spending power, and no girls came to restaurants looking for work.
Mercenaries would not like a place like this.
But Lobo was an oddball. He simply liked the food here.
Though it was a restaurant on another planet, its architectural style and furnishings were much like the places Su Ming had seen in the United States. It was like one of those little shops beside gas stations along the Kansas interstate, with nothing remotely distinctive about it.
A lighted sign hung over the entrance, maybe a meter long, bearing only the word "Food." It did not even have a proper name.
"Creak."
Su Ming, a cigarette between his lips, pushed the door open. The two glass-paneled wooden doors let out a pitiful scraping sound.
There were quite a few customers inside, but not one of them looked human. A group of foul-smelling aliens sat shoulder to shoulder at the counter, stuffing themselves while chatting