"This cannot and will not end well, you do know that major." Cammy said simply.

"Agreed." Thibor nodded, tossing back another shot of something dark, fragrant, and toxic to lesser men. "But is single form of peer pressure am still subject to. Besides, is timing. Is Mag eventually wanting to return to wife before night is over."

"So you are somehow trying to tie a heroic altruism to the rather obvious fact that you are locked in a bet with Colonel Byrd." Cammy said. "If that excuse was a dog, I would put it down out of kindness. As it is coming from one, I am considering doing so by proxy."

"Yes." Thibor admitted. He took another shot. Stacked the glass with the others and then reached for the next one. "Would be kindness, but is not just about me."

"More of your convenient altruism?" Cammy arched a finely formed eyebrow. "Do tell. Perhaps it is to ensure that the younger members of the team get enough sleep by causing them to faint straight away, thus granting them a comfortable eight hours of uninterrupted rest?"

"Setting up exercises." Thibor grimaced, taking one shot in either hand, and downing them in unison.

"Ah, if you win the bet, you do not have to run the setting up exercises for the new recruits? You are seeking to protect them?" Cammy crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him.

"No, if am winning, you don't have to run setting up exercises." Thibor considered the final shot on the table. He put it down with a gulp and wiped a slight trace of the liquor from his mustache.

"Ah, so this is protecting me from a duty that I rather enjoy." Cammy noted dryly. She paused as Thibor placed a folded document into her hands. "Wot?"

"Is new trainer uniform." Thibor noted. "Is not sort of thing that should ever be designed by online poll." He waited as Cammy perused the document and the attached photo.

"Yes… rather." She said finally. "I owe you an apology. Are you sufficiently medicated for this task, or shall I fetch another tray of shooters."

"No. Am close enough to state of no shame that will not matter." With a slow, careful dignity, Thibor rose and stepped, somewhat unsteadily towards the waiting microphone.

"Hey Cams." Charcoal plunked down in the vacated seat. "What's his nibs going to sing."

"The Ballad of Eskimo Nell." Cammy noted.

"Coolness." Charcoal enthused. "Deadeye Dick, Mexican Pete and the lady who crushes the glass and catches bullets with her…"

"Yes. That is the one." Cammy noted. "Or rather that is one version of it. I am afraid that Thibor has no intention of singing the clean version."

"There's a clean version?" Charcoal seemed momentarily taken aback.

"A misnomer." Cammy corrected. "The canon version is anything but clean; however, it is a rather odd point of pride for certain units within the military and merchant marine to create increasingly creative and descriptive verses that exceed to original in sheer offensive power."

"So a really dirty version. I'm cool with that."

"The last time Thibor sang this particular version, it incited a jihad, caused a tidal wave and led to the extinction of a rare species of tree lizard."

"They were washed away in the tidal wave?"

"They took there own lives rather than continue to listen." Cammy said. "And on that note, I shall be retiring to the powder room. I will return when the smoke has cleared to offer was comfort I can to the survivors."

Thibor has taken the microphone stand in both hands and was using it to keep himself steady. The first words rolled out. His voice was suited to singing, the deliberately tortured sentence structure vanishing at the rote recital. People turned towards him, fascinated by the suddenly perfect diction.

Then the words registered with them.

Then the screaming started.