Tomatoes.

Bena Dura was a mercenary. He killed others for a living. He hated his boss and the hours were less than ideal. He once tried to organize his mates into a kind of union, to collectively bargain for better rates and a decent health plan. That ended when someone tipped off human resources and he had to deny ever thinking anything of the sort. Job security was an issue of growing concern. Traditional forms of kinetic war making were going out of fashion in most places. Slow acting, hard to get your head around, economic stuff was the order of the day. Trade embargoes, subsidies and so on. There was always Africa, which he dipped into when cash was scarce. He tried to avoid the continent, a kind of hipster impulse to shy away from plying his trade in a place generally considered mainstream in merk circles. Besides, certain forms of oppressive colonialism were simply too unromantic when divorced from the wider context of empire. A privateer in his majesty’s service was equal parts rogue and knight. A ragamuffin hired gun on the odd coup errand was, well, just not infused with the sort of grandeur he had imagined fighting life would entail. There were days he hardly even felt like getting up in the morning, but he knew he had to keep up appearances. There was always the issue of references. Burn bridges and your next gig could be security at some tin pot birthday party. He dreaded the prospect, because he hated kids and he definitely hated balloon animals.