"Oh, precious Mother, wot's 'e have in mind, then? Closin' this flamin' failure o' a Pub down? Just what i'll be needin' after losin' me best friend, 'n me worst enemy, is t' lose me livelihood, such as 'tis.."
Moira looked again at the flimsy of the message from Reggie. She threw her head back, shook her long red curls fiercely, and then threw back the drink sitting on the table in front of her.. a long line of dead soldiers strewn in rank atop it.
"So.. he's wantin' me sober, 'n he's wantin' hugs, but he's also wantin' t' talk serious. I couldn't blame the dear man fer closin' Hope's down. I've not had te time t' run it proper.. and bleedin' Reggie..!"
She drifted in thought to the time she met Reggie Waverly. Enlisted by Riley MacKenzie into some bizarre plot, which involved blowing up Reggie's house 'n acres, then going to Newcastle to cadge nuclear materials from her Molly contacts; and then to help cadge together a flying Ugly Betty holocaust ship on Belfast, t' be used against some ancient Evil imprisoned by the Brets as some "secret weapon". A strange bunch were Reggie's friends.. his "Church" friends.
"Well, I'd best find all the bleedin' keys, and empty the safe. It'll be back t' Islay fer me, 'n tryin' to breathe some spirit back inta them soddin' Gaians."
Just then, she heard a musical tone, and turned to the public viewer central to the Pub's common area. It showed an external view of the mooring area, and the unmistakeably guady hull of a Geisha liner coming slowly to rest near Mooring 3A. She could imagine the ruggedly handsome, middle-aged captain disembarking, his chiseled but still-genteel jaw set for business..
[attachmentid=5689]
Moira sighed.. "Well, even fookin' Fin McCool left fer sunnier climes.. that's a true harbinger o' somethin' bein' ready t' give up the ghost, Moira. Nothin' fer it but t' pay the piper, 'n see what the newest steps are."