They Called Me ‘Fossil.’ They Laughed at My Cane. Then They Ripped My Shirt Open… And Made a Phone Call That Woke Up the Most Dangerous Men on Earth. --- The floor of the Salty Dog Tavern is a special kind of sticky. It’s a permanent geological layer, a resin of spilled beer, forgotten tears, and decades of regret. It’s a sound—*shhk, shhk*—that greets me every time I walk in, a sound that says, "Welcome home, ghost." And we’re all ghosts here, at the Dog. We’re the men and women who’ve slipped

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