Walter stretched and yawned as he clomped his way down the the ship's companionway--the claustrophobic, narrow corridor that linked the fore and aft parts of the ship--and descended down the hatch that led to the cargo bay and the brig.  The brig was a secured area in the forward part of the ship, a small, enclosed space that had been fit with thick iron bars.  It could house two, or possibly three, prisoners, but not much more than that.    It contained a small bunk, barely large enough to sit on, let alone lie down in, and a hard plastic liner that served as its mattress; and that, besides the all-purpose hole in the grate floor, was it.  There was two keys to the cell, and Walter had one of them.  The other was stashed somewhere in the cockpit, just in case.<br/><br/>His captive was hunched on the bunk, glaring at the shackle around his ankle when Walter entered the brig and sat down opposite him.   "Welcome to the<em>Ellie May</em>," he said, in a sing-song voice, doing his best impression of a hotel bellhop.  "We hope that your stay with us will be as pleasurable as possible, and, to that end, if there is anything that we can do to make your stay even more comfortable, please don't hesitate to let us know."   He hooked his thumbs in the loops of his suspenders and stretched them out, pulling them up over his shoulders.  "We appreciate your business."<br/><br/>McClean looked up, slowly.  There was pure hate in his eyes as he growled and spat upon the floor.  "Go to th' Void, Black."<br/><br/>"Oh, I'm sorry," Walter said, with an expression of exaggerated regret.  "I'm afraid we're all out of that.  You'll just have to settle for a nice, comfy seat in the brig and a long voyage back to New Cheyenne."  His expression changed.  "Now, we're not savages here, McClean.  You play nice, show us you can behave, and we'll get you some water.  Maybe even some of the amazing biscuits that Juliette makes.   But that's all contingent on you playin' nice.  On the other hand, you give us any trouble, any trouble at all..."<br/><br/>He reached down to his hip, where his blaster was.<br/><br/>Where his blaster<em>usually</em>was.   He felt slightly foolish, patting his hip when there was nothing there.<br/><br/>"Well, you....get...the idea."  He coughed, and tried to recompose himself.  McClean didn't even grin.<br/><br/><em>Better watch that one,</em>he thought, and opened his mouth to add something.  Suddenly, the sound of water rushing echoed throughout the ship's pipes.  Both men looked up;  Walter instinctively knew what was happening.  One of the women, or possibly both, were using Jules' jury-rigged shower, running a bar of soap along supple, lithe limbs while rivulets of water trickled down through sodden hair, over shoulders and curves and ripe, full breasts, dancing down shapely thighs and legs to patter finally upon the floor...<br/><br/>Both men looked at each other.   "Think about it," said Walter.  "In the meantime, I believe I have business elsewhere."<br/><br/>Before Jethro could respond, Walter beat a hasty retreat, his imagination rife with images of the two females, twined about each other in the shower's enclosure, hands and asses pressed against the glass.<br/><br/><div align="center">(http://images5.fanpop.com/image/photos/29700000/Nathan-33-nathan-fillion-29778477-500-226.gif)</div><br/>