Drake and Ameristar step out of the alley. Drake is wearing his body armor. He looks something like a cross between a motocross racer and Boba Fett. The armor is a uniform shade of green so dark that most first glances would mistake it for black. He has a crutch of the same color in his right hand and has a second one strapped to his back. "So, do you speak Portuguese or should we just speak slowly and loudly?" "Speaking slowly and loudly is the American way. Don't worry though. I think we'll get by. I like the outfit by the way." "You'd better not be making fun. This uniform used to strike fear into the hearts of Wisconsin's criminal underworld." "You mean the cow tippers?" "On slow nights, maybe." They don't get their chance to speak slowly and loudly, as the locals seem suspicious of the armored strangers. "They don't seem to take kindly to armored types 'round these here parts, ma'am." "You're right. We should just concentrate on finding a guide instead of questioning the locals." "We should try in there." Drake gestures toward a seedy looking bar. "Why in there?" "Guides are always in seedy looking bars. Haven't you watched enough bad adventure movies? And even if I'm wrong, it'll give us a chance to enjoy the native atmosphere." "Sounds like a plan to me, let's go."
