A short, grizzled looking man walks through the door of the recruitment office, his back stooped and his walk slow.
The rather bored Secretary looks up. "Wrong door, old timer. The Department for Veterans Affairs is down the hall."
"Eh? Who says I'm in the wrong place? This IS the recruitment office, correct?"
The secretary straightens up, looking slightly more interested. "Indeed. WHy? Are you looking to volunteer? We're usually looking for younger blood. You wouldn't like out there, Grandpa."
The mans voice is cold. "Son, I was raised in the cockpit of an independent freighter. Ive been flying since I was twelve.
I was 12. I've flown every sort of ship you can name, and a few you can't. I'd still be out there now, 'cept Those Frenchie Bastards gut shot my ship and left me to asphyxiate.
I'm out the business, due to losing both my ship AND an entire cargo of gold."
"Sure Grandpa," the Secretary says soothingly, "but..."
"Son, I'm here to try to make sure that doesn't happen to some other poor sod. Did I come to the right place?"
"So listen up, boy, or pornography involving your mother will be the second worst thing that happens to you today."
