Not In My Bar

Different delivery guy, Joe noticed.  Clean-shaven and a snappy dresser for a man who drove -- and, more importantly, unloaded -- pallets of alcohol to bars and restaurants.  That was the first oddity Joe noticed.  Then the 'assistant' climbed out.

Joe backed up, already shaking his head, and growled, "Hell no.  Not in my bar.  Get out of here."

"Joe, I'm wounded."  Captain -- probably Colonel by now -- Smith moved forward, hands out and tone soothing.

"Bring trouble down on my bar, and you damn well will be."  Joe glared at Smith, memorizing his driver's appearance in the process. "Out, Smith.  Whatever you need, whoever you're rescuing?  Blow up someone else's bar."

Smith studied him, then nodded and asked, "Honor between soldiers?"

Joe snorted.  "My regular supplier better show up.  But I'll give that 'til four before I call the MPs."

"Kind of you," Smith said dryly, overriding his driver's protests.  "No, Face, never mind.  We'll just have to find someone else to help us with our cause."

"Save the sob story for someone who doesn't know you can haul your own asses out of your own fires," Joe suggested.  "And by the way, Smith?

"You army.  Me marine."