A merc, a captain, and the first mate walk into a bar… A good Independent friendly place, dark beer, hooch so heavy it near to smoked, and close enough to the core to have a real band playing in the corner. The three wound their way past a healthy mix of the down trodden, down and out, down and dirty, and upwardly mobile, occasionally having to correct a nimble finger or break a wandering hand. The bar girls dancing out of their way, and out of the merc’s reach. They settled down in a dark corner along the wall but opposite to the band, the merc in the corner, the captain and first mate on the outside. “We early or’s yer man late?” The merc grumbled as the captain ordered a round. “I’m sure he’s just bein’ a mite cautious is all,” replied the captain. “No reason not to relax and enjoy our drinks.” By the middle of the second round the merc was getting antsy enough the bar girls hardly distracted him. “That’s it” he muttered “I’m gonna look around.” The first mate held up her hand and pointed to the door where a finely dressed man and two leather clad women were following the same path through the bar’s patrons the three seated had already made. “Captain Reynolds.” The man more stated than asked as he and his companions reached the table. “I just might be,” The captain replied “If you’re Mr. Bridge.” Mr. Bridge was a tall man, wide at the shoulder and narrow at the hip, with a gleamingly bald pate, and a ready smile. “Then you must be, unless I’m mistaken about my own identity.” He joked as he sat down. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” the first mate mumbled under her breath. Bridge’s companion pulled chairs from nearby tables and sat down just as the band finished a tune and launched into the next. “Oh, Mama don't you cry, lord he don't know why He may come back to live, or maybe just to die. You gave me wings I’m gonna fly I may fall from the sky don’t you cry…” The first mate rose calmly from her seat and to the astonishment of the assembled table just as calmly walked over to the stage, grabbed the singer by the throat, dragged him to his knees and punched him in the face. The singer crumpled at her feet. As she rejoined her party Captain Reynolds looked up in some astonishment “Zoe, what the hell was that?” “Post traumatic stress, sir.” The first mate replied as she regained her chair. “Oh.” And turning back to Mr. Bridge and his ladies Mal grinned “So… Where were we?”