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"Gie'za pint mate." The Scotsman leaned forward across the bar and indicated with two fingers. The barman looked up at him and nodded, putting down the cloth he had been using to wipe down the surfaces.

"Sure. Foster's alright?" The man indicated to the taps in front of him. Lager, mostly. No good local stuff anymore, microbreweries had been the first to go after the nukes. He supposed that at the very least it cut down the number of hipsters.

"Nah, nae having that shite. Stella." He pointed to the white tap, the bartender leaning over and filling it up, trimming the head off with a quick swipe before handing it over. A quick draught of the stuff to quench that tickling in his throat, and then the man would slide across a plastic fiver, watching as it was gobbled up. He needed a job soon, someone to shoot. 

Speak of the devil, there was his phone. Messages from Pale Horse. A raid on a CDA facility. Sounded like his kind of job. A CDA counteroffer would crop up, but he didn't care about that. He'd already accepted the PH job, no need to bugger around. A few swiped got him across to the conference call app he'd set up with his squad, sending them a ping. Two minutes later, and half a pint of Stella in his gut, and he would start the call. "Alright boys. Get set up, we'se got a job to do." That was all that he needed. 

Polishing off the pint, he would listen to the message as he left the bar, nodding slightly. Bang boom crash. Seemed exactly what he liked to do. Just hoped the call to action would start quickie sharpish like.