They kicked his cane. They ripped his flannel shirt. They laughed at the 78-year-old man limping in the corner of the Salty Dog Tavern, thinking he was nothing but a fossil taking up space in their bar. But when that torn fabric exposed the faded tattoo on his arm—an eagle, anchor, trident, and flintlock pistol—they had just awakened something they couldn't possibly understand. "What's a fossil like you doin' in a place like this?" Scab's voice dripped with cruelty as he towered over Terry Harmo