Of course they had a lot of classes for basic things and fair was fair. If they had to indoctrinate kids from an impressionable age into military service, might as well teach them how to wash their damn clothes in the deal. He got out of the car and stretched, working the kink out of his neck before grinning at Namur's words.

"You are a Fishman among Fishmen," he said, wrapping an arm around Namur's shoulders and planting a smooch on his head. He lead them toward the bar, keeping a close eye on Espio unless the guy decided to scarper. It was a ramshackle kind of place. A kind of bar that all the Marines except for the really annoying (and fun ones) would avoid. No dark and dangerous criminals but people that looked too shifty to leave alone but too much like a stringbean to bother to arrest.

The air was filled with a haze of blue cigar smoke, smelled chiefly of beer and the kind of food that gave you heartburn, as well as waitresses that liked to feel the breeze.

"Don't drink the water," he murmured out of the side of his mouth--before pausing at the eternal question, side glancing Namur. Bar or table? A booth was out of the question but the other seating choices were a bit on the nonexistant side.