Broski strode angrily into the NCO Club, sauntered up to the bar, and ordered a bourbon with a whiskey chaser. The barkeep, a twisted old Space Fleet vet, returned with the two
drinks and placed them before the brooding commando.
"You're either mighty thirsty", the bartender observed, "or there's something troubling you."
Broski threw an evil smirk at the older man, grabbed the bourbon shot and poured it in his nose, consuming the burning liquid through his nasal cavity. He slammed the shot glass down.
"It ain't really none of your business, old timer.", he said, eyeing the bartender menacingly.
Broski reached for the other glass, but the barkeep was quicker. He grabbed up the drink, popped out his fake eye with his free hand, and poured the liquor into the socket, then stared back at the corporal
with his good eye.
"Wow", Broski breathed, "that was great. Where'd you learn to do that?"
"Rudabega-Charlie-6", the bartender replied, "during the Arvid Conflict."
"No kidding!", Broski exclaimed, "I was there, too. It was my first deployment."
The older man smiled. "And my last. That's where I lost the eye."
"What unit were you with?", Broski asked anxiously.
"Seventh Armored", the bartender replied, "Potsie Company."
"Neat", the corporal remarked with child-like wonder, his previous funk seemingly forgotten. "Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, sir.", he stammered, extending his right hand. "I'm
Corporal T. W. Broski."
"Retired Gunnery Sergeant Buck Marx." the bartender replied, shaking the offered hand, "but everybody calls me Roger. What's the T. W. stand for?"
"Tinky-Winky.", Broski remarked proudly. "It's an old Earth name. My folks said it means 'brave warrior' in some ancient dialect."
"I imagine it does", Marx concurred. "Now how 'bout you tell me what's got you so worked up."
Broski grimaced, recalling the reason for his upset. "Well there's some trouble on ship", he explained, "and they've hired a Melk to find the suspect."
"Ah, and you're against working with the Melks because of our past battles?"
"Damn straight!", Broski proclaimed. "I ain't partial to fin heads."
"I can see your point", Marx acknowledged, "but they are some mighty fine trackers."
"So?", Broski asked indignantly.
"So, maybe you ought to give this one a chance before you go condemning him.", the bartender suggested. "You might be surprised."
Broski's mood was souring quickly. "I doubt it.", he managed, feeling his kinship with Marx begin to fade.
