All conversation stops as a man, clearly a pilot by the jumpsuit and full-face helmet, marches into the bar. A martial air, Marching Glorious to War or some other such piece, drifts from beneath the helmet, and his heels (non-regulation nails very evident) click in time to the music. His jumpsuit is plain, excluding the exorbant amount of medal ribbons (also non-regulation) pinned to the chest, and the word "Four" across the helmet, shoulderblades, running up both legs and arms, and across the knuckles of his hands.
As he removes the helmet, the martial music ceases, and a gloriously unnatractive face grins from beneath the lank black hair.
"OY!! Three's bloody beat me 'ere then! 'Oo's been having a nice prissy juice now then? Roight?"
He swaggers over to the Beta Sqn. table, and samples a massive pawful of cashews.
"I bleedin' Love cashews! Oy, Suzy, grab me a triple scotch, in celebration of me new transponder ID; wait for it... Armed Forces Guard! Praise the lord, 'ave you got yers yet three? Or are the Waste Disposal folks still claiming you as their own? Hahahah!"
Practically bouyant with hilarity, he slumps into the largest chair at the table and tosses back his whisky, which Suzy (a generously... endowed redhead) had quickly refilled.
Jack Handey Wrote:I can picture in my mind a world without war, a world without hate. And I can picture us attacking that world, because they'd never expect it.
