“You know, Shitface,” Thurmsabold swung a thicc musky arm around Sir Broderick, nearly crumpling him like soggy cardboard. “You know, Shitface, seeing you here today, it reminds me of old times. They was the best of times, you right puddle, you.”

Broderick laboriously removed Thurmsabold’s arm from his shoulder and slurred with rage. “Who are you to call anybody a right puddle? Have you looked at your reflection in a magic mirror lately?”

“Bah! Magic mirrors! They ain’t got any respect! Always flopping their jowls around talking til your ears fall right off! What’re you trying to say about my person anyways, Shitface?”

Broderick looked up at Thurmsabold’s imposing figure and squirmed like a worm on a hook.

“Well? Speak up tootsie!”

Sir Broderick the Shitfaced had a sudden lapse of awareness. Perhaps his blood alcohol content had reached such incredulously heinous levels that he had totally lost the plot. Perhaps it was all an act out of sheer fear, a ploy to escape confrontation. Perhaps the thought train he’d been hitching a ride on had clearly caught glimpse of him and he’d resuntingly hopped off it. Regardless, Sir Broderick’s eyes glazed into donuts for a moment while Thurmsabold rasped fowl breath in his face.

“Excrete me but I am going to go gamble away the rest of my drinking money,” Sir Broderick did his best to calm down his mustache and then stood up on his toes and patted Thurmsabold lightly on the left cheek. “Thank you very much kind sirrah.”

Thursmabold puzzled over what he had just experienced. Then he set down his ale and rolled up his sleeves with a mischevious grin.

“Wait a sec there Shitface! Why don’t we visit the outhouse together ay? For old times sake.”

On hearing this the barkeep looked at Thursmabold and Broderick and giggled. Thursmabold swung around in fury.

“Not like that! No it’s not like that at all! I was on the wrestling team back when we were both just lads and-”

The barkeep twiddled his beard. “Wrestling eh? Well if he’s not interested how about you and me-”

“Sod it you blighted pancake!”

As Thursmabold and the barkeep bickered Sir Broderick sat at the card table on what he thought was a chair. It was in reality one of the card players’ tired Caldonian Bulldogs. Broderick took no notice.

“So what we playing this evening hmm? Kentucky Hold Em? Brown John? Vodka Rummy?”

The current dealer, who wore an eye patch and was smoking a long, thin ‘cigar’ that looked less like a cigar and more like four brown cigarettes stuck together set his cards down and grumbled.

“Kentucky ‘old Em. Third aye blind. We’re in the middle of a hand.”

“That’s doondy my hood peacock plucking. I can wait.”

“Very well.”

The player next to Sir Broderick, who owned the Caldonian Bulldog that had been co-opted as a chair, spat. He leaned over to Broderick, growling in his ear. “I don’t like the shape your jib’s cut in. Must’ve been very bad at using a jigsaw, he who cut your jib I mean.”

“It may seem that way but sirrah I must tell you my jib is well uncut. I entertained the idea in my youth but now I’m fairly certain that-”

“Oh I’ll cut yer jib for yeh if you want. Maybe even if you don’t want.”

“Blitswald! I won’t have ye intimidiatifying one of our players before I’ve even dealt em a hand!”

“But he’s sitting on Michael!”

Broderick perked up. “Michael? What a lovely name for a chair. Never thought of naming a chair did I. Might have to start now!”

Blitswald growled like a Caldonian Bulldog. “Michael’s not a chair you billiard ball! He’s my Caldonian Bulldog!”

“Feels right like a chair to me. Hasn’t moved a speck.”

“Hasn’t moved a speck? Hasn’t moved a speck?! He’s got to ‘ave moved a teench now hasn’t he? What for to breathe and ‘ow not?”

“Perhaps he’s died.”

“Excrete me what did yeh just say right now mustache?”

“Did you just call me mustache?”

“I’m not not calling yeh mutache.”

“How ruddy of you.”

“‘ow ruddy of you, mustache! Sayin’ that Michael’s dead!”

“He’s been a right log. Truly I felt I was sitting on some sort of nice leather chair before you gave it a name. And even truer I’m still slightly under the impression that you may be giving me a bit of a joshing.”

“A bit of a joshing? I’ve had that dog for twelve years now! We’s blood brothers!”

“Blood brothers with a dog. I guess now I’ve heard everything.”

The dealer slammed a fist on the table, scattering chips, drips of ale and cigar ash. “Ave yew lot all called? Be we ready to move on abouts now?”

Sir Broderick leaned over and looked at Blitswald’s hand. “Well look at that. He’s got a flush.”

“That’s it mustache ima shove your jib through a cheese grater!”

Blitswald lunged at Sir Broderick, who toppled inhebriatedly off Michaels’ back and onto his own.

“Staggering ale-fish! Get on yer feet and face mey like some sort of a testicled individual why don’t yeh!”

“If you’ll—just—give me a right—moment—I’ll do—just—that,” clambered Sir Broderick as he slipped over his feet twenty times.

“By the chickens he’s done it! He’s killed Michael! Michael’s dead as somethin’ that wasn’t never even alive!” Blitswald hugged Michael’s smelly ale-soaked fur in agony. “Yew bats-turd! I’ll kill yew!”

Sir Broderick wobbled around as if his legs were stilts, observing the scene through a massive amount of tunnel vision.

“Oi! Well then. I guess that’s that. Told you the dog was dead. Chickory o’s and all that. Enjoy your day.”

“Ay it’s nigttime ye sozzled up blue-footed breasticulite! Yer drunk off yer ass!”

“And I’ll be drunk-” Sir Broderick let loose a noxious belch, “And I’ll-” another belch, “And I’ll be drunk on my ass in a right few moments now!” A thundering quake of a belch. “Love you lot’s accents by the sideways. Are you from the Western splint? Anyhow, toodledy-woodley!”

Sir Broderick seesawed through the tavern to the exit, only to be stopped by a large hooded figure. It reached out a skeletal hand and pressed it on Sir Broderick’s chest.

“You…” grumbled a raspy voice that echoed through the hallways of Broderick’s mind and nearly boiled his earwax.

“Ooh. Spooky.”

“Yes. Spooky. Spooky indeed.”

“Well now that you’ve curdled my cabbages I think I’ll be leaving.”

“You’re not going anywhere…anywhere…anywhere…” the figure had meant to emphasize anywhere so that it would echo extra loudly in the halways of Sir Broderick’s mind but instead settled for saying ‘anywhere’ three times at a progressively quieter volume.

“That was a little silly.—burp—Farewell!”

“Stop! Stop it. You owe me something. Yes, you have a debt that I am here to collect.”

“Oh yes? My immortal soul perchance? Might I send that to you by post?”

Of course ‘by post’ referred to the magical posts one could find installed by most any place of residence, including the lair of the esteemed wizard Dr. Krumbunculus. They had a thin slit that you could easily slip a sheet of paper through, wherein it would immediately magically appear at the addressed to magical post.

“Pay! You must pay!”

“This feels very antagonistic and honestly I’m not here for it, chup,” Sir Broderick was sweating, and red in the face from more than alcohol.

“You must pay for what you’ve done!”

The hooded figure took a skeletal finger and pointed angrily at Sir Broderick’s ale.

“Oh! Yes yes of course of course.”

Outside the large breasted cicadas were screeching like their legs had just been hacked off, the beetles were chirping like they’d all had vasectomies and needed some ice, and the gigantic purple bears of Ore were snoring loudly due to their sleep apnea.

A loud rumbling, like a gurthquake but stupider, managed to drown out this menagerie of discordant noise, shaking the Belligerent Bar-D and surrounding fauna.

TOOT TOOT

It must have been a sky train. The click clack of the train tracks echoed, shaking loose the filament from many a mystical muskrat’s nostril.

RUMBLE RUMBLE RUMBLE

A clandestine outhouse door flapped open. Thurmsabold peeked out, then attempted to slam the door.

RUMBLE RUMBLE RUMBLE

The door creaked open, this time revealing the bartender’s face. It was on the floor.

RUMBLE RUMBLE RUMBLE

TOOT TOOT

“Two too?”

“Yes two too indeed,” replied Sir Broderick to the bartender, who was not the same bartender as earlier for reasons that were to Sir Broderick as unclear as his vision. “Two chickensfeed for two pints of ale is-

TOOT TOOT

“Too, too much.”

“Sir, the price was listed on the placard.”

The new bartender gestured to the dark wooden cupboard above her head, which forced her to maneuver her breasts in a completely unintended and suggestive way. One hypnotically jiggling breast lead to her glowingly sexual arm, which was now pointing to a holographic price menu. They appeared to have been cast in the font of ‘Comic Sands.’

TOOT TOOT (louder now)

“Floppy fishsticks…these were different when I came in here. You must’ve cast a spell on em! I assure you my old smackerel of potato that if there’s one thing I keep proper track of it’s my libation fundage.”

CHUGGA CHUGGA CHUGGA CHUGGA

Suddenly the dopey man behind Sir Broderick gasped and timbered to the floor. His fart was on its own final chugga. Gasping his last words, he struggled to look directly at the placard on the cuboard as his eyes darted to the bartender’s pointedly firm nipple and then to the small amount of arm hair peeking out of the sleeve of her black t-shirt, and then back to the nipple, to the hair, hair, nipple, hair, nipple…

“C-c-c-c-c-c-”

TOOT TOOT

A matronly, mysticly, magical little old lady leaned down what short distance she had from the floor to kneel beside the fellow.

“Speak forth, my child, for the lord our chickens hear you, and cluck with you for all time.”

CHUGGA CHUGGA CHUGGA CHUGGA

It appeared the man’s train of thought had shifted with the sky train. “C-c-c-c-cocksuckers.”