When he asked you to come with him into port, you hadn’t expected this. Sure, the shady dive bar was standard, but when he yelled, “scram!” and you two flew down a dirty alley and ducked into some random local’s home, you know things weren’t going according to plan.
As you peer out the grungy window, a group of what are obviously Americans converge on the dive bar, and the few sailors left within are drug out, likely to face captain’s mast.
You look over at your new liberty buddy. He simply points at this shirt, winks, and slides you a beer from a cargo pocket. Cheers.
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