Fresh beer in hand, Shake ambled through the ramshackle interior of the Drifters Reef. Everywhere he looked there were marks of passage from visitors of one ilk or another. Walls, tables, chairs, stools, stanchions and nearly every other kind of flat surface were festooned with unit stickers, decals and patches from all branches of the military, foreign and domestic. There were bills of worldwide denominations, usually signed by the people who left them behind. There were hats of all descriptions—usually bearing a military logo—tacked or stapled all over the bar’s sagging ceiling. It was a
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