"Good Lord two of worse company reprobates in the bar at once, Soph don't take any lip from either of these
buggers. Lets be fair, if a girl has a pulse, and looks sideways at Derek, he falls in love. I think hes yet to
score from the penalty spot though." ...
Jay, swung into the bar, sheaf of papers in his hand.
"Mind you, as long as Pete has a faceful of bacon sarny, hes fairly harmless, grubby logic and all. And I'm
sure his 'wrench wench' will be glad to hear he finds her so attractive. Wonder what extremely important
bits will be detaching themselves from the ship at one of those really stick moments ? I'm quite sure the
insurance branch will be reviewing the 'wear and tear' clause in his cover now."
The papers slid across the bar ...
Thought one or two of the others may have poked their heads in by now, the lure of a set of executive
washroom keys, coupled with the odd free beer, is normally enough to attract them to a bar ... Errr,
silly me, just a bar is normally enough."
Right, stock take in the morning, I'll be in early for a change, Tracy is out of town for the weekend.
Might get some work, and a spot of fishing done." ...
Some say he is a proud member of: "The most paranoid group of people in the Community."
"Say... what...? who? Ah no, no, no, no! Old Franny, she's a sweet kid. But she definitely isn't my, erm, bit on the side. I have one rule -- never you-know-what in your own nest. Now if she were still attaching wings on Hawks back at Ames, well now that'd be different. And a bar of soap wouldn't go astray...."
Pete wipes his greasy hands down the front of his flight suit, and Sophie gives him a dirty look.
"Well, I better lift off. Hopefully that useless LPI has pulled it's finger out of the donut box and seen off those cheeky bloody Outcasts. Two mill they taxed me! Couldn't freakin believe it. Maybe I'll head through Magellan, give them a piece of my mind... oh well. Give Aaron my best if he turns up. Derek, what are you looking so scared about! Last time I saw him, he said he wanted to introduce you to his good friend Mr. Shotgun. Never heard of the man myself..."
"Yes, definitely time to switch to hard liquor. Sophie, my dear, damage control! Please bring us a bottle of your finest MOX solvent." Sophie quickly pours him a double straight-up.
"Poor old Dez!" Pete claps him on the back. "So some floozy ran out on you. You still got your ship, and your mates. What more does a bloke need? It just like this Junkers fella I ran into... he was a successful business man, but three ex-wives later, and he was reduced to doing a runner into the debris fields. Had a face like the arse-end of a Behemoth.... Mate, you don't need that kind of grief. Take old Pete's advice! The only woman you need is Sophie here."
Pete raises his 8-year double-malt Edinburgh, and downs it in one gulp. Sophie refills his glass.
"Now, Derek, you aren't going anywhere are you? Rightio, now tell us what happened."
Pete downs his glass again, and Sophie refills it.
"Oohh, that's the good stuff," says Pete, not waiting for Derek to answer. "Now, mate, where were we? Look, you still got a ship. Could be worse, you might... have... um... only one leg!"
Pete throws down the third, and Sophie hesitantly refills it.
"Now Derek, you aren't driving are you? No, good. Otherwise I'd have to take your keys off you. Coz just between you and me, old Derek is looking just a teensy weensy bit drunk. Now come on, drink up!"
Pete downs his fourth, and Sophie is hard pressed to fill it up again.
"I'm the depressed one, and your the good mate trying to cheer me up... no wait... you're the depressed one, and I'm trying to cheer you up! *belch* But just between you and me, I think Derek is a little bit unhappy in his love life. I would suggest we take him out and get him laid, but I'm afraid that might just compil... complc... compili... make things worse.
Pete downs his fifth, and he motions wildly for Sophie to refill it, who does so very reluctantly. Pete suddenly glares at some random person in the bar.
"Whadar you lookin at?" He jabs a finger at the fellow. "I'm not telling you again -- stay away from my wrench wench! She's sweet and innocent, and I won't have her sullied by some randy bastard in a pub."
Pete downs this drink, and Sophie doesn't refill it, but he didn't notice as he puts his arm around Derek's shoulder. "Right! Now that's sorted out. Derek, you're among mates here. Old Pete, and Sophie, good kind-hearted Soph, and the guv in the back room... Dez, tell us everything. Let us share your burden, as mates do."
Derek practically ignored the fact that the Father of one of his former girls just walked in the door, he kept his head rested on the bar table with his drink next to him. His glass still only half full, from his first when he got back.
It was true, Derek still had his ships, and his credits. No one could take those away, and the credits could easily be remade after a few days of hard work.
"Thanks there, Pete. But can't be really bothered to drink, hell, can't even be bothered to run from Aaron over there."
*Mmm, hit hard?*
"Yep..."
*Well, like Pete said, you don't need her! You were doing just fine before, why couldn't you now?*
Derek perked his head up, running the words Sophie said through his head. He smiled, and emptied his glass quickly, with a huge grin on his face. Sophie sunk her face in to her hands, knowing exactly what was coming next.
...Everything slowly unblackens. Pete's eyes flicker open revealing a whitish haze with a black blob to one side. The scene slowly comes into focus -- he is staring straight up at ceiling lights, the gentle face of a young woman bent over him.
"Am I dead?"
Several more face bend over him.
"Nein," says a heavy Rheinlander voice. "I'm afraid you are still among ze living."
"Well, well, so he is!" says a smarmy Bret voice. "Junj, looks like I owe you a groat my son."
Pete tries to sit up, but slumps back in agony. "Strewth! God almighty, my head feels like its been cracked in half and glued back together the wrong way."
"Poor baby!" croons Fran, and she dabs a wet flannel on Pete's brow.
"What the hell happened?" says Pete. "Last thing I remember... oh. Hmmm."
"Hit the old turps a bit hard, guv" chuckles Mick. "Out like a light. That loooovely barmaid of yours called us in to scoop you into a bucket."
"Ja," says Hubert, "ve had to carry your carcass all ze vay back to ze ship."
Pete groans.
"I got it on video, if you wanna see!" says an excited, squeaky Nat. "I recorded it on my phone."
"Ja, vhen you could have been helping carry!" Hubert berates the youngster.
Before Pete could protest, a large wall monitor comes to life. There is blurry, shaky camera-work of three men and one woman carrying a fat man, who is in a semi-conscious state. They are straining under their tremendous burden. Pete watches in horror as he sees himself moaning, belching, blathering, slurring, farting, yelling at random passers-by, and lamenting someone named "Derek". At one point he whines for mummy. Fran giggles, both on-camera and off.
"Turn it off!" roars Pete, his hand wearily on his brow. "All of you, get out. Leave me the bloody hell in peace."
There is snickering from his crew as they file out.
Benjamin Eppstein, more commonly known as Old Eppy, leisurely strolled into the Ship Inn 'round five o'clock after unloading his, ah, cargo on Manhattan, wiping the ice crystals off of his shoes as he went...bloody docking probe's heating unit was malfunctioning again. Unbuttoning his black greatcoat as he went he slid onto one of the stools, patiently waiting for Sophie to finish with the Newark yuppie three stools down as he pulled out his neural net card and popped open the morning's paper, flipping to the Ships and Hardware adds. The Cash Cow was running herself, Gary was doing a good job captaining her and he could leave her for longer stretches of time now. He'd been looking into getting himself a smaller, more mobile craft for some excitement...
"Mhm." He looked up. Sophie had arrived.
"A pint of Maltese Ale, with the Cardamine extract, if you happen to have a barrel of that somewhere in the back, dear." he gave his best crinkled old-man smile, brushing a wisp of grey hair out of his face. She smiled knowingly and headed through the narrow door at the far end of the bar, returning forty-five seconds later with a clear mug of the requested refreshment as Eppstein looked back down at the adds. He was wavering somewhere in between this brand new Borderworlds Transport and this lightly used Behemoth. Sleek style and low cross-section versus rugged, industrial efficiency...he concluded that the ale might help him decide, and tossed back a good quarter of the glass. Another look after a second gulp provided little guidance...
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