I like to fight and f**k

The neon sign flickered in a way that suggested chronic electrical issues rather than artistic intent, its Galactic Common glyphs spelling out *BET OR BED* above a corroded airlock. Susan stopped mid-stride, her boots skidding on the grimy deck plating. "Oh," she said, tilting her head. "That's *literally* what it says." Adam peered past her shoulder at the smaller text beneath: *NO REFUNDS, NO CLOTHING, NO DIGNITY.* "Sounds like my last birthday party," he mused, earning an elbow to the ribs.

Inside, the air smelled like ozone and poor decisions. The fight pit was a repurposed cargo container, its walls dented from what looked like both intentional and enthusiastic collisions. A seven-foot-tall Krothian in a stained apron took one look at them and held out a three-fingered hand. "Credits or collateral," it rumbled. Susan patted her pockets, then grinned. "Define 'collateral.'"

The rules, as explained by a drunken Yirxi referee missing several mandibles, were simple: lose a fight, pay the winner in credits. No credits? Alternate payment plans available. Susan was already rolling up her sleeves when Adam leaned in. "Alternate payment plans?" The Yirxi wiggled its remaining mouthparts in what might've been a leer. "You Galactic Basic speakers are so prudish. Fuck or fight, yes?"