J
Jack Robinson
Guest
Roland Green, Rifleman. Location: Jade Elephant Bar.
Roland was late to the party.
Unfortunate, yes. World ending? No. He didn't care much for his crew members or for socializing anyway. He was here to make money, to get out of the house, and potentially shoot someone. That was his job description, and that was what he was sticking by. Of course, getting wasted on the boat was not part of his job description, but he did it anyway. And so he woke up a fair while after everyone else had gone onto land, and realized he was mostly alone. He sighed, got dressed, and left the boat, remembering through his hungover haze that he was supposed to go to the...Jacked Egret? No, the Jaded Elephant. That was the one. He was supposed to be there by five or so. He figured he still had plenty of time, and so he leisurely strolled through the streets, basking in the humidity and absorbing the local culture. He had never been to Siam. He'd never killed anyone from Siam either. This would surely be an interesting experience.
His head ached and his stomach was gurgling in despair. Roland had learned an old trick from an army captain a few years back, that being that one could suspend a hangover indefinitely so long as one continued drinking. Roland was a firm believer in this rule. It had served him well over the years. He purchased some meat on a stick from a vendor and proceeded to the Jade Elephant, getting tips from locals and perusing street signs until he found the elegant hotel. He chewed on his meat, not knowing from what animal it was from and frankly not caring. Meat was meat, food was food. He'd eaten scorpions for a week in Egypt. They were spicy little buggers. Essentially, he'd learned to not complain about food after that whole incident. He arrived at the hotel, greeted the staff with a surly and somewhat drunken greeting, and asked where the bar was. In his limited English, one of the staff gave him directions. Roland gave him the greasy stick leftover from his meal as a tip, and stumbled toward the bar. He burst through the door, and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the somewhat dimmer lighting. He walked over to the bar, slid into a seat, and ordered a gin and tonic, with extra gin.
It was then, sipping his strong drink and relishing the burning feeling in his throat, that Roland realized there were several other members of the crew in the bar with him. He cursed under his breath, turned toward them, and gave them a nod.
"Morning. Er, afternoon. Whatever." He drained his drink due to the efforts of social interaction and ordered another. He pulled a somewhat damaged cigarette from his breast pocket, whipped out a match, and lit it. Through puffs of smoke, he analyzed his companions. They weren't all fighters. No, indeed, the only other fighter he could recall due to his drunkenness was that other soldier...what was his name again? He had no clue. He'd refer to him as "son" until he remembered it. That was the polite way of doing things. Surely they couldn't expect an old timer such as him to remember names and faces. That was hard stuff, especially when he had nightmares and alcohol to occupy his mental capacities. He just hoped he wouldn't have to rescue these fools. That would require much effort, and he didn't have effort to spare on people he didn't care about. If he was paid more for each one that survived, well, that would be a different story.
Roland was late to the party.
Unfortunate, yes. World ending? No. He didn't care much for his crew members or for socializing anyway. He was here to make money, to get out of the house, and potentially shoot someone. That was his job description, and that was what he was sticking by. Of course, getting wasted on the boat was not part of his job description, but he did it anyway. And so he woke up a fair while after everyone else had gone onto land, and realized he was mostly alone. He sighed, got dressed, and left the boat, remembering through his hungover haze that he was supposed to go to the...Jacked Egret? No, the Jaded Elephant. That was the one. He was supposed to be there by five or so. He figured he still had plenty of time, and so he leisurely strolled through the streets, basking in the humidity and absorbing the local culture. He had never been to Siam. He'd never killed anyone from Siam either. This would surely be an interesting experience.
His head ached and his stomach was gurgling in despair. Roland had learned an old trick from an army captain a few years back, that being that one could suspend a hangover indefinitely so long as one continued drinking. Roland was a firm believer in this rule. It had served him well over the years. He purchased some meat on a stick from a vendor and proceeded to the Jade Elephant, getting tips from locals and perusing street signs until he found the elegant hotel. He chewed on his meat, not knowing from what animal it was from and frankly not caring. Meat was meat, food was food. He'd eaten scorpions for a week in Egypt. They were spicy little buggers. Essentially, he'd learned to not complain about food after that whole incident. He arrived at the hotel, greeted the staff with a surly and somewhat drunken greeting, and asked where the bar was. In his limited English, one of the staff gave him directions. Roland gave him the greasy stick leftover from his meal as a tip, and stumbled toward the bar. He burst through the door, and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the somewhat dimmer lighting. He walked over to the bar, slid into a seat, and ordered a gin and tonic, with extra gin.
It was then, sipping his strong drink and relishing the burning feeling in his throat, that Roland realized there were several other members of the crew in the bar with him. He cursed under his breath, turned toward them, and gave them a nod.
"Morning. Er, afternoon. Whatever." He drained his drink due to the efforts of social interaction and ordered another. He pulled a somewhat damaged cigarette from his breast pocket, whipped out a match, and lit it. Through puffs of smoke, he analyzed his companions. They weren't all fighters. No, indeed, the only other fighter he could recall due to his drunkenness was that other soldier...what was his name again? He had no clue. He'd refer to him as "son" until he remembered it. That was the polite way of doing things. Surely they couldn't expect an old timer such as him to remember names and faces. That was hard stuff, especially when he had nightmares and alcohol to occupy his mental capacities. He just hoped he wouldn't have to rescue these fools. That would require much effort, and he didn't have effort to spare on people he didn't care about. If he was paid more for each one that survived, well, that would be a different story.