the /34/ must flow
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The blazing Congo sun was muted by the camo netting stretched overhead, held up by a collection of rough wooden poles, sheets of corrugated metal, and a few barrels. Hanging from one of the poles was a sign that read OFFICER'S CLUB.
Baron sprawled in a lawn chair, wearing only a pair of boxers, his gangly legs stretched out onto an empty ice-chest. A warm bottle of beer sat on the upended crate next to him. Up here, there was little to see but sky, encroaching treetops, and a short swath of the airstrip. A thin breeze wafted over the roof, scarcely wicking the sweat from his skin. Baron took another swig of the weak local beer.
He glanced over, without rising, as Sandman came clambering up the ladder to the roof, hands coming into view first, flexing as they gripped the top rungs. Sandy was an odd one, in Baron's experience. He had that accountant-like appearance so common with those American pilots--a receding hairline, kept trimmed down to eighth-of-an-inch stubble. No tattoos, no piercings. No sharp edges.