Resting within the battered hull of a small tug boat looking transport vessel slept Billy Holder, half empty bottle of booze on his nightstand and a dollop of hazed drool rested upon his bearded face. His right hand rested upon an empty shot glass, a portion of his left hand shoved down the front most part of his pantline as he slumbered on. To any who saw him or his boat, or better yet both at once, they could see that he was not one who cared for outer appearances of himself or those which he owned and cared for. The paint of his boat was chipped and the wood had rotted away in many places, if not for the fact it had been cared into the wood which made up the boats outer shell then the name surely would have been non existent. The man who owns the boat seems to have never heard of a shower, his hair is shoulder length and is a tangled mess with a few leaves and bits of dirt thrown into the mix, his beard is to his collar bone and is much the same as his hair. Most would wonder who in their right mind would ride with this alcoholic hobo, though for the right price anyone will do just about anything. This is where he would be when those interested in his journey would arrive, all they would have to do is pull the rope near the boarding plank, which would sound a loud bell above his head, and he would come out to invite them aboard.