It took me roughly three minutes, after entering the establishment, to realize that I had just traded being in a rat infested flop house, to standing in the middle of the universe's filthiest shit hole. And I can not in good conscience, even begin to describe the occupants of said shit hole. I shuffled along in a state of stunned disbelief, as Sean Collin half hauled me into the least contaminated booth.
A few shouts and a couple coins later, a greasy looking punk in a bar man's hat, wearing a 'Niode Jane's' shirt, slammed a pitcher of beer and a couple glasses on the table. I didn't bother to look to hard at the glasses or the pitcher, I thought it best to just knock it back fast at first until inebriation adjusted my sight to the point where everything began to look good.
We were about half way thru our second pitcher, when a pilot in a rabbit fur trimmed flight jacket plopped himself down across from us in the booth. "Morning, mates! I know this dirt bag. Sean Collin, how 'ya doing 'ya old snavurm nugget!", he half shouted, half laughed at us as he sat down, shaking McFae's hand in the process, "Who the hell is this, and what lies have you been telling him, boy?", he asked then, as he nodded his head in my direction.
"War correspondent, Pan Galactic Associated Press, doing a story for New Terra Life magazine. Name's Johnathan Hollis. What's yours?", I yelled back, over the screaming din of noise in the bar. "John T. Mainer, Spirit of Bunny Clan. Friends call me Johnny, but you can call me Johnny.", he laughed at his own lame joke, "I just came over to wish you luck, Sean Collin. You're gonna need it, this time round. I hear Bunny and the Brotherhood are going head to head at some point over the next few days. Make sure you eject before the kill shot, so I don't have hose what's left of you out of MY mecha, when we salvage it!"
"Ah, go blow it out your fudge factory, big man. The only thing that's gonna go down this weekend is that I am gonna be sportin' a brand new rabbit fun flight jacket come Monday.", McFae responded, reaching across the table to finger the fur on Johnny's collar.
"Hands off, jack ass!", he laughed, brushing away the sergeant's hand. "See 'ya in the field." Johnny stood up, tossed back the rest of his drink, and headed back into the chaos of the bar room crowd.
After that, the rest of the evening became a blur. My next coherent memory was slowly opening my eyes to sunlight shining thru a screened window directly in my face. I was lying on a linoleum floor in the kitchenette of the Brotherhood staging building. I pushed myself up on my elbows and slowly got my wits together. I would need them. The wars kicked off in less than 12 hours.
(To be continued....)
Submitted by Sgt Ron Frye ID# 879655