Content Night at the FUBAR Corral

The pier beside the Isadora was quiet; but, across the quay a dozen men worked the cargo and hoists on the older, dirtier twin: the Cuba Libre. Bill ascended the last few steps onto the ship and the crew set about pulling the gangplank. Rumbling from within became vibration as she backed slack into her aft mooring lines.

"Puts the 'tramp' in tramp steamer," Veronica said emerging from a hatch in a navy blue trench coat. "The fog's coming on so damp with cool - there's that."

Bill smiled. "You wanted adventure and mystery. Adventure and mystery. Well - here it is. When we get to San Lupe, the world will have turned."

Veronica walked past him with heels tacking the deck plates, measuring their resolve. She almost turned as she strutted ahead pulling a .32 automatic from her pocket.

"Your definition of mystery," she said admiring the pistol and hearing distant sirens. "Are those yours?"

"Probably not. No."

"The mystery left me lacking. I had to make some of my own."

The ship quieted as a yawn, then lurched forward: nineteen days until the next port.

"Really?" Bill asked.

Veronica stepped inside the superstructure at the next hatch dropping the pistol back into her pocket.

"Just try finding the bosun."