With the combination of a bad poker hand, a bad attitude and an Alliance officer, Hoit Nara finds himself stranded on Hera. The officer figured irony would leave a sour taste in Hoit’s mouth when emptying his wallet didn’t seem to satisfy.
Hoit is now standing in the small and relatively new town of Fitzgurl forty miles east of Serenity Valley. The town serves the area’s farming communities and gives a new meaning to the word “rural.”
What are you going to do, Hoit?
Hoit: What am I going to do indeed, disembodied voice. For starters, I’m never playing poker with some stone-faced Alliance weasel ever again. And to think his little yes-man buddy would accuse me of cheating! The nerve!
Hoit: Actually, I probably won’t be playing poker with anyone out here. I’ve been to small towns before, but this gorram place doesn’t have two gold pieces to rub together. I s’pose it couldn’t hurt to patronize a local bar or two. How else am I s’posed to find a ride off this rock?
Hoit walks into the Stiff Saloon, one of two bars in Fitzgurl. The bar is straight ahead through an area with small round tables big enough to seat four. There is a staircase to the left leading up to the second floor. The second floor seems to be primarily for rooms. The wait staff is all female, including the bartender who gives you a wary nod as you walk in.
Hoit: Well at least this town has something going for it! Maybe getting stuck here ain’t such a bad thing after all. A couple beers or so an’ I think I’ll be able to chat up that cute lil’ bartender into pointin’ me to a reputable ship captain.
Hoit walks himself up to the bar.
Lilah: What’ll it be, Du J’er?
Hoit: "What, is it that obvious or did that Alliance twerp come in here already? Know what? Ne’ermind. Mudder’s Milk, ma’am, an’ make it as hard as you can.
Lilah: You’ve desperado written all over your face. Don’t start nuthin’ here. I’ve got enough problems with the locals without Browncoats rubbin’ faces with Purple Bellies and gettin’ my bar shot up for no good reason but to settle a score won’t never be settled.
Lilah hands him the Mudder’s milk. The door of the bar opens and a man in his 50s walks in. Lilah looks up.
Lilah: Dohn luh mah?
Hoit bites his lip, darting his eyes from side to side as he lifts his drink.
Hoit: Gon beh.
Lilah: I’m glad we understand each other.