[pshrynk]

"What I don' unnerstan... What I don' unner... Just whynaheck did they wait until we were in Hava... Havannana... Cuba? Why could'nt they have sacked us in Miami... Where we.. you know... live?" Patrick was on his sixth beer. they had retreated to Sam' Authenic Cuban Bar to drown their sorrows. Sam, the red haired proprietor, set up another round for the boys.

"Bastards! That's why. They are complete and utter bastards." Armistice was on his sixth rum and juice. He was able to hold his booze better than Patrick.

"T'be fair, our contrac' was with Gonzales. He'sa one that woulf fire us. If they were going to fire us. Which they did. Did I ask why they waited til we were in Havananana?"

Armistice signalled Sam to not give Patrick any more beer. Sam nodded knowingly.

"We have to get a new contract. Without the Naval Depot fuel, we are screwed. I wonder if the Cuban Government needs an Airmail Service..."

"Gotta stop thinkin' Airmail. Gotta star' thinkin' outside the... thingie. Brown made of paper, square-ish."

"Grocery bag?"

"Right! Gotta think outsi' the grocery bag! That doesn' sound right..."

In the back corner, two sailors who had popped in for a quiet drink discovered that they had been insulting each other and each other's wives. They stood up and started yelling at one another and blows soon followed. No one but Armistice noticed Vivaldi jumping up on the table and lapping up their beers while they were fighting.

"Maybe there's a freight company that needs fast delivery."

"Fas' delivry? We don't do fas'! We do as soon as we can get the dang Autopilot to quit tryin' to kill us delivry. S'not fas' atall."

"You really need to learn how to swear, Patrick."

"Don' wanna go to Heck. Although flying the Goose comes pretty darn close!"

The fight was starting to spread and Sma was quickly removing the breakables from the bar. He was one of those pragmatic barmen who knew that if you had a bar near Naval docks you would have sailors and, more to the point drunk Marines sooner of later. The chairs were all bought second had, as were the tables. A roll-down screen covered the bottles behind the bar. Stout wooden beams protected the front windows. A stout cudgel protected Sam.

A sailor flew by Armistice just as he picked up his drink. Patrick was not so lucky. The sailor crashed into him and knocked him down, spilling his beer.

"Hey! I paid goo' money fer tha'! An' I don' have that mush left!" He threw a wild roundhouse which connected with the Marine standing behind him.

"Aw, crap!" said Armistice. Throwing down his drink, he stepped over to the Marine who was sizing Patrick up for the kill and decked him with one punch.

"I coulda handled him!" yelled Patrick.

"I needed the practice," Armistice shouted back as he stepped into the fight that had suddenly come his way. Armistice was a good brawler, having no morale compunction against kicking a man in the fork when he wasn't looking. He saw fighting as being about winning, rather than about competing. Vivaldi was at yet another table, drinking a concoction out of a tumbler as a previously innocent bystander dropped on top of him, braking the table and throwing him to the ground. Armistice stopped worrying about his dog and started dodging the fists that were flying at him from three directions.

Then it happened. He glanced at the door of the bar and saw a vision out of dreams. And these were the good dreams with lots of wonderful things happening, and not the ones with the jury of talking cows, at all. She was tall. Curvy. Blonde. Green eyes. And smiling. Oh, that smile! Her entire face lit up with the smile. And Armisice's heart with it.

A marine landed a punch as he was distracted by the vision of the beauty and he went down like a brick.