The door to the bar opened, letting in the muted racket of the outside in for a moment, as a man wearing the usual mix-and-match attire of a pilot for hire strode in, and hung his tags up on the corkboard before slumping onto a stool by the counter. "I'll have a beer, barkeep. Molsons or Carling if you have it, otherwise I'll take whatever's on tap. And keep them coming." The man said as he dropped a few dollars on the counter. He was speaking in a Canadian accent that suggested that he was from the Protectorate of Ontario. The odd attire he was wearing confirmed that further for any onlookers.