Reggie Waverly strode down the corridor towards the tall hewn-oak doors of Hope's, a bit miffed at himself for being away so long; but, he was finally caught up. The Fields of Gold at Pueblo Bonito were planted and progressing well, all the Scrubby contracts had been filled with his last delivery to Planet Harris, and some refugees from Holman were safely delivered to Baffin, and being considered for various employ as Temple domestic staff.
As Reggie approached the doors, the garish poster pinned to a door became visible. A few more steps, and he had ripped the paper down, staring aghast at the text, and cringing at the mention of his own name...
"Ah, my dear Moira.. forgive me! I have indeed neglected this property, and the woman who brought me back from the brink of despair. I will make amends, my love, I promise!"
Reggie pushed open the door. He recognized none of the hired help. A single customer sat at a corner table, his face half covered by a black velvet slouch hat, idly flipping through a dog-eared paper copy of "Finnegan's Wake". Two barmaids were gossiping at another table, oblivious and uncaring that someone had entered the bar. The lone barkeeper was about to lose the precarious balance of his unshaven chin resting upon a palm, eyes drooping.
Reggie took a deep breath and strode behind the long bar, noticing a film of dust which covered the once-polished surface. He brusquely pushed the dozing barkeeper aside, earning a look of equal parts confusion and objection. A silent and unwavering stare from Reggie soon had the fellow making a half-hearted effort to wash a sinkful of crusted glassware.
The CEO of Waverly LLC, Owners of record of Hope's Haven, then reached under the bar and found a clean apron, which he donned before rolling up the sleeves of his silk shirt.
"By Goddess, I will make amends! I can dive for pearls as well as the next man!"
I've been called away t' Islay t' help arrange a Wake fer an old friend, dearie.
On the way, I ran inter a few o' them Republic lads in Dublin.. told the tossers we still valued their business, if not their bleedin' table manners! They might be droppin' by.
Oh, and if Fin McCool is still takin' up space in the corner, either give 'im an apron 'n put 'im t' work, er hand 'im 'is tab, and boot 'is fookin' arse out, hear?
I'll keep ye posted, Brigit. Hugs t' Reggie when next ye see that tosser.
"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..
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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."
man whats happened 'ere, Liam notices the for sale sign and tears it apart.
A few phonecalls later and a few hours of cleaning the bar was clean
and filled up again with workers of Bfp
finally now I can calmly read these paperwork in me old pub again
yar bartender bring me some beer for this councilor, bartender nodded yes sir,
mission reports, casualties,damaged ships pfff, cant we jus
keep thing in one piece around 'ere Liam nodded
ah first things first Liam grabbed the large pull of beer and
drunk it up in one go thirsty? asked the bartender.
ofcourse I am, this paperwork doesnt do itself yar know,
now let me work.
Noal walked into the pub. leaving a trail of oil behind him.
" 'Ey, i just finished unloading a load'a fuel. straight from one'a those depots near waterloo station...... an' i had a damned oil leak in the process." noal said to anyone who cared to listen.
[i]
he noticed some of the other pilots glancing at his oil soaked flightsuit.[/i]
"you think it's bad? you should see wha' the inside o' the ship looks like. ground crew's still trying ta get the oil to come of the ceiling."
he walked over to the bar and sat down. a pool of oil formed under his stool.
"now, ya got any beer round here?"
after seeing the look on the bartenders face, he grinned.
"an' dont think ya can lie ta me. i know we always have a few kegs about. i'll take one'a those with me when i leave."
' Wrote:<span style="font-family:Century Gothic">Violence is Golden</span>
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