A Beer Among Pilots [dual pup post, backdated to Wednesday evening, OTA]
Jim had an interesting day. He woke up to find a shift-plan for the fire station on his kitchen counter, right next to the coffee machine. What was most interesting was that his name was on top of it, stating him to be chief of the Haurvatat Volunteer Fire Crew. He couldn't remember volunteering, but was curious about it none the less. Fire crew sounded like action, and action he liked.
Further investigation at the fire station proved that he had indeed somehow gained a new position - on top of his job at the casino. Well, it was a volunteer crew so that probably was intended.
Having spent the day figuring out his new position, he strolled into the Black Sheep in the evening for a beer, a manual of the fire truck in his hand, which he started perusing after ordering a beer.
A little later, in strolled a short man wearing a pilot's hat with a lot of gold braid on it. So much of it, Jim frowned for a moment, reminded of spit and polish Navy idiots, but he waved him over none the less. It had to be that Martin fellow who'd messaged him a couple of days ago; a fellow pilot who wanted to chat. He'd said be happy to and he at least was curious. Another pilot in town was intriguing.
Martin had spent the day looking into safety procedures at the cinema and found them not up to his expectations. He'd have to do something about that, but not tonight. Tonight he had other plans, he was going to meet up with someone. So he looked around searchingly as he entered the Black Sheep. Was the man he was looking for here? He didn't know what he looked like, which was why he had donned his captain's hat. A fellow pilot should recognise it. And truly, a man at the bar waved to him. He didn't look much like a pilot, but then who did in this airfield-less village? Martin approached him and was happy to find it was indeed Captain Gutterman.
Soon after introductions were made the two men were seated at a table and began swapping stories about flying in different centuries.
Jim sat leaning back leisurely, legs stretched out, a half empty beer in front of him next to the discarded fire truck manual, his hat pushed back on his head.
Martin on the other hand had placed his hat on the table and was leaning forward, talking animatedly about his emergency landing in St. Petersburg. His beer had hardly been touched so far, he was too engrossed in talking shop. Finally he'd met a pilot who was happy to do so. Haurvatat was a strange village, but he was beginning to like it; or rather, the people you could meet here.
[If your pup feels intrigued by two pilots swapping stories, butt in. Tag one or I'll alternate them for a chat of three.]