Nine Swords

This "drabble" idea is relevant to my interests. Give me theme words.

OK then...

Crazy
Political
Intrigue

Hope you don't mind, I edited the title to make it more redibly apparent whose drabble it is.

Now for words:
Taco
Fairy
Bicycle

I don't have one for "crazy political intrigue" yet, (because that's how I'm rolling with this), but here's what Aberlour inspired:

“Take the chain off, dude, I’m gonna puke.”

Jack lit a cigarette, took a drag, let the smoke drift over the sprawled-out fae. He hadn’t looked like a faerie, riding a carbon-fiber bicycle and wearing a tee that advertised T-Rex Tex-Mex. He sure looked like one now that he had an iron chain draped over him.

“Sure, but first I need a bit of info. See, something big went down in Seoul recently. I want to know more about it.”

“Huh?”

Jack knelt close. “Tell me everything you know about the guy that helped you hide from the Fae Courts.”

Crazy

Jack was getting nowhere, and his conversation with a crazy hobo was drawing stares from others in the park.

The man wore pajamas and slippers with a week’s worth of grime on them. He threw popcorn at the pigeons like it was a weapon.

“Dr. Livingston never put up with this shit. Never had cameras or lions telling him what to do.”

Jack noticed a pattern. “These lions—do they wear white coats?”

He saw a change in the man’s face: a light coming on, a fog lifting. He looked at Jack with a sane man’s eyes.

“Yes. They do.”

Political

Jack set his beer down clumsily. “What I’m saying is, the big point is that all these generations of people put in all this work to make a society, and you can’t, like, just throw all that out because you don’t like it.”

April lifted her drink, paused, set it down. “Yeah, but I’m not shaying we should throw it ALL out, just, like, change a few things. All those people before, they changed things too. Like the mnimninum—mninimum—like pay scales.”

She was starting to look real good right now. He wondered if that meant he’d had enough.

Intrigue

Jack picked him up at O’Hare airport. He was already frustrated at having to be in a city so dense, and angry at having to navigate its traffic. But he let the reedy little man speak first.

“I want protection. Total, complete, they-can’t-even-get-me-with-a-voodoo-doll protection.”

“The Blues won’t get you as long as your information’s good. You tell me what you’ve got, and we’re on our way to Agartha and straight on to Ealdwic.”

The guy needed a full minute to work up the nerve. But he nodded.

Jack relaxed, slightly. “Alright then. Where do you Freemasons have Adelaide Bedard stashed?”

Very nice. Time for more words!

Rain
Records
Booze

Rain

It was pouring. Jack stood in the full dark outside the glow of a street lamp and only barely noticed the water seeping into his boots. He hated moments like this: the target just inside that building, and no idea what they’d do.

His team, all in plain clothes like he’d insisted, signaled their readiness. All exits covered. He spoke into the radio: “Execute.”

A blur of activity. Shouting. “Adelaide Bedard!”

No answer.

The house was empty. A note lay on the kitchen table, covered in gloating and taunts.

Jack had learned to deal with setbacks. Still, he was pissed.

More words:

Sheen
Coat-hook
Coral