All Inclusive

Hunting down slimeballs generally ain't a job you can do and stay local. You wanna make the big money, you gotta be willin' to travel halfway across the damned universe and back, and you gotta be willin' to put yourself in the middle of a lotta different kinds of people. Slimebag people, but you know. Culturally different.

They got festivals on almost every planet out there, and unless they're givin' away free booze, there ain't nothin' Rocket likes about 'em. Even the free booze ones usually have a catch, and he don't understand why people want to be around each other on purpose anyway. If he could have a festival, it would be a festival of one.

...okay, maybe two. But that's it, and he don't mean Quill.

This Terran holiday shit's got to be the most annoying of the whole lot, though, with it's frickin' twinkle lights and trees in the middle of the room for no good damned reason. 'Supposed to be all about love and cheer and all that bullshit, but he ain't feelin' any goodwill from any of the humans who've yelped just at the sight of him.

Like they ain't never seen somebody looked any different from them before.

He don't like the hotel in the first place, but it won't let him back home yet, and even his room is filled with spangles and fake snow. (Who the hell wants real snow, much less fake snow?) In his attempt to find someplace a little less annoying, he's found himself down in the basement, sitting alone in a row of cushy chairs with very low expectations for whatever he's about to watch. If it's got anything to do with that fat guy in the red suit, he's bailing.

But oh, it ends up being so much better than that.

"Aw, what! Just take 'em out!" he's yelling now, on the edge of his seat and motioning angrily at the screen. "You gotta machine gun!"

[Watching Die Hard, best of all holiday movies.]