~Sophie's Canaria Cafe~

[Doc Holliday]

It had been several days since John Holliday's last visit to the Canaria Cafe. Still dressed in his professional old west attire, a visibly agitated Doc Holliday entered the cafe. The crowd was light and the backround music was low for a very relaxing environment.

"Welcome back, Doc," piped up Norman who was at his usual spot behind the bar, "your usual seat is free."
Doc said nothing as he went to the back corner table with only a nod of approval. As the Doctor sat down, Norman followed with a shot glass and a bottle of whiskey.

"Looks like you need this," he said as he put them down on the table. "I'll make up some of the nachos you like."
With a weak smile, Doc replied with a simple thank you.
He then poured the shot glass full and picked it up. He watched it as he swirled it around. Strangely, he only took a sip and put it back down. Yes, his mind was abound with many things. He then took the gold watch that was chained into his pocket, opened it and checked the time. It really didn't matter what the time was as he was more fidgety than anything. As he closed it and put it away, two men entered the bar dressed in Bretonian pilot's uniforms. He recognized them as Borderworld Export pilots. He just lowered his head enough to not be noticed under his hat but kept his eye on them as he began playing solitaire with a deck of cards. The two men were loud enough to be heard by all.

"Barkeep, I'll take a draft if you would," requested the first pilot.
"That sounds good," replied the second, "I'll have the same."
Norman, fully aware that others were listening, struck up conversation.
"So what brings you boys out to Gran Canaria," he asked as he began pouring their beers.
"Gran Canaria? Where the hell is Gran Canaria?" asked the first pilot.
"Um, Mister........" he stalled, fishing for a name.
"Mr. Wilkins," replied the first pilot, "Frank Wilkins and this is my partner Don Frederick."
With a chuckle, Norman continued, "Mr. Wilkins, you are on Gran Canaria, the Zoner's home world."
"Not according to my charts," he replied instantly, "This is planet Sydney and any Zoners living here are squatters."
Norman then put the beers before the two men who then each took a drink as Norman continued although now he was a bit offended.

"Well, Sir, I am a Zoner and have lived here for some fifteen years. I am no squatter," he torted. "There are many of us who have been here for some time to include Ambassador Holliday who has a 10,000 acre Estate a ways from here."

"Ambassador Holliday, eh?" responded Wilkins, "Well, I'm sure his Estate will generate some nice tax for the Bretonian government if they don't put him on trial for insulting the Queen first."
Both pilots were getting louder and more beligerent as the subject wore on. All the while, Doc sat quiet, flipping cards on his table, just listening.

"So, then, if I may ask, does the government plan to do with this planet," inquired Norman.
"Re-settle the 10's of thousands of refugees here displaced by the war," declared Wilkins. "They will also profit nicely from the rich niobium fields not far from the planet.

About that time, Doc smirked beneath his hat which was still dipped down to hide his face. He then coughed as he so often did just loud enough to get the attention of the pilots. Mr. Frederick then put his drink down, stood up and made his way to the table where the coughing stranger sat. "You have a problem, Mister?" he asked in a rude tone. The stranger only looked up with a weak smirk, revealing who he was.

"Well, well, Frank," commented a sarcastic Don Frederick with a bully's grin, "look what we have here, the Ambassador himself."
Wilkins then stood up himself. As he walked to his partner, he himself was tough talking, "No kidding! I say we take care of things now." Taking a position near his partner, his face went straight, "It's too bad he didn't have his little Kusari bitch with him."
Frederick also got serious, "Then we could deal with them both. But for now....." He then reached for his sidearm.
In a flash, both men found themselves staring down the barrel of Doc's pistols which he drew from under his coat. "Oh I beg to differ, Sir. I do believe it is you gentlemen who will be dealt with." After a quick pause, he continued, "Now, you can go back to your drinks or you can check out our fine Canarian soil from underground."

The two pilots were furious at this point but knew they didn't have a chance. "You ain't nothin' without those guns, Holliday. You're just a skinny, little runt!" barked Mr. Frederick.
Doc then cocked the hammers on his guns, "I told you to go sit down and behave." Without another word, both men backed off and once they were to their seats, Doc re-holstered his guns. He had also had enough for one day or so he thought.

He picked up his cards, stood up and closed his coat and began to leave the cafe. He then handed Norman some gold for a tip, "Norman, you have yourself a good night." Then he turned to the pilots and tipped his hat, "Gentlemen." But, as he headed for the door, Mr. Frederick shot up and charged him. Expecting the attack, Doc turned to his side, grabbed him from behind as he tripped him and thrusted the knife he had drawn into the pilot's chest. Trying to help his partner, Frank Wilkins drew his sidearm but before he could take aim, he heard three clicks behind his own head. Two Corsair pilots and Norman himself had all drawn on him. Doc then lowered the dying pilot to the floor and turned to Wilkins, "Sad thing is, Sir, it was you I had hoped took my knife for your comments about Miss Midori. I guess I missed."

"You haven't heard the last of this, Ambassador, not by a long shot," bellowed a very angry Wilkins. As Doc put his knife away, Wilkins picked up his partner and carried him out, hoping to save him.
After a few minutes, the Cafe returned to normal as Doc returned to his Estate. The bottle of whiskey that was Doc's was now being enjoyed by the two Corsairs that watched his back as a thank you.

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[MFE]Med Force One | Tales of Recovery|Med Force Enterprises