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After a very frustrating trip from planet New London, Doc entered the bar. He had the look of disgust on his face and was cursing under his breath trying not to let his ill temper get the best of him. The bartender noticed as he removed his coat, through it on to a seat next to him and angrily took a seat of his own.
"Bad day, Doc?" asked the barkeep.
"You don't know the half of it, my friend. A glass and a bottle of whiskey," he asked, "and do leave the bottle."
"Will do," the barkeep replied.
As he waited, Doc sat back in his seat and sighed after a quick coughing spell. He muttered to himself, thinking out loud, how one group of people could take his words so totally the wrong way. Then, he sat forward, slamming his fists on the table, spooking the barkeep who was in the process of setting his bottle and glass on the table. As he did, he noticed the old world style guns on his body holsters.
"Those are some fine firearms," he commented, looking at the pearl handles that stood out.
With a pat on each and a weak smile, he winked and replied, "they have served me well. Join me for a drink, Sir."
The barkeep went back to his bar and returned to the table with the old west style dressed man and placed his shot glass on the table. Doc poured both servings and they toasted, "To Canaria!" They tapped glasses and drank.
"Doc, I'd like to visit more but I do have customers," he said, "you missed Commander Matok by about an hour. He was quite the character and left a case of Blood Wine."
Doc then poured himself another shot, "To Matok and his ship. A fine crew and a damn good friend."
As he sat, the thoughts of his rough few days began to fade a bit as he settled down.