Cursing quietly to himself, merely simmering after a long stream of curses getting off of the relocation ship, Cookey finds himself a refugee of all things, stuck on the wrong side of the galaxy. Literally punching the door to shove it open, he stomps his short, fuzzy form towards the bar and kicks the barstool's release. Sittin on it, he rises it to meet the bar with a slapping of a credstick. "Ale! House unless ye' be carryin the Blackwood!" He spits at the bartender. With the flick of a wrist he produces a canister lighter and lights a half-smoked cigar.