Harold Kane, in his infinite snark, decided to visit the bar. Though he rarely drank anymore, and really never looked the part for it, he enjoyed the atmosphere. He handed both of his crossdraw pistols and a service knife of decent length to the guards, smiled, and wandered in.
"Kallisti, Doc," he called out as he wandered over to the counter. "I've got a headache and I need a drink and someone to talk to. Turns out I have a hell of an excuse for why our second shipment of supplies never made it to the planet, but I don't think you're going to like it."
