It might be easier for me to bribe the bartender, because I don't drink alcohol
.I love the idea though. My father was an expert at that, and would gather intel all the time that way. He had lots of stories of getting information. If he were still alive, maybe he could teach me (he died in 1984). I'm the opposite. Maybe I should sneak in some synth, and pretend to get tipsy. But I don't even know what drinking is supposed to sound like when talking!
Ok, here's the story I remember most. After WWII, my father was drafted to Fort Ord. Before the first day, he went to the local bar(s), and was able to gain information on what happens. I forget why he asked or whatever. Anyway, the information is that the first question you get as a draftee is "do you want to drive a truck or dig a ditch?", and everyone answers. They take notes or group you by answer, and everyone who wants to dig a ditch is made to drive trucks, and everyone who wants to drive trucks has to dig a ditch. My father preferred to drive trucks, so when the next day came and they indeed asked the question, he answered, he wants to dig a ditch (a lie), and everyone else said they wanted to drive a truck (truthfully). The army made everyone else dig a ditch, and they made my father drive truck. Apparently, this almost never happened that only one person "wanted to dig ditches", so to stay true to their anti-desire ways, the army only allowed my father to drive and they had no relief for him, and as a result, he was so busy driving trucks, (I bet you can see the ridiculous lie (probably to my mother, a really frightable woman) that makes me think this story is fake) that he never actually fired a gun, but because the paperwork required that every army member learn how to fire a gun, the army leaders had to fake up the paperwork for him and say what score he had for his firing tests and such. The story goes that they accidentally fudged too high, so they had a big ceremony thrown for my father for being able to have great gunmanship, so he went up to receive the award, and everyone there except the outsiders knew that he had never fired a weapon, and no one said anything at all during the ceremony (they kept his secret). That's sleuthery, malfeasance, wimpiness, incompetence, adherence to paperwork, and honor to comrades all in one story. It tracks a little, since my father never taught me about guns, but was great at driving. Thus me and TMC. Sad, eh? But I think it might have been a lie, all the same.
