After about the 15th beer of the 3 skulled drink, our gaggle of heroes was still quite sober... and alive. Meaning the narrator's alcohol tolerance rubbed off on the party. You are very much welcome.

“Oh noes, I stopped servin ya the threeskull after the first drink since ye'd be pished beyond reason if I hadn't.”

That's... surprisingly kind of you. But why would a barkeep be interested in letting patrons survive beyond the bounds of their wallet?

“This ain't the assassin guild here, son. We just serves the drink and watch yee all when yer sleeping likes a baby after ya paid, of course.”

Why would assassins need a guild? Scratch that, let this narrator rephrase himself. Why would assassins need a public guild? Doesn't that defeat the entire purpose of being an assassin? This ain't the bar of cheers where everybody knows your name. Blade lunatic McGee might not like being that famous after having just wiped out a family of twenty before he's even had his morning tea.

“Oh, ya noes McGee as well? Ya, he's a good kid. Little sloppy round the edges, but knows his way round a barstool no doubt. As I says to Patricia this mornin, he a good kid with a J-OW-BEE no less. Ya could do worse than him. He ain't one 'o them hero folk who run away with no childhood friend and all. Sticks right by ya as he sticks it to others, but withouts da knife, of couse. Haha. Catch mah drift?”

This narrator has failed to catch even half of this construction of words. It sounds like the common tongue, but it has degenerated to such a high degree that the only merciful course of action is execution through extended waterboarding. So we may never make this mistake again.

“I'd like to see yas try, lad. You ain't getting anywhere near me. Or any other gal for that matter.”

This narrator would like to point out he's married.

“Does the girl know yous talking shit like that bout her? O' is she ded?”

She isn't, this narrator hopes. But with how long the hero has drawn out his rather feeble quest, there's very little certainty left. All that matters now is for this party to get back on the road towards the mountains of legend.

But the party strongly disagreed. Well, their nether regions strongly disagreed. Certain parts of one's physique should never turn purple. Or at least not that type of purple. You want a nice, healthy red, mixed with yellow to turn into a colour that somehow isn't orange unless you wear several layers of sprayed-on tan.

“Let's rest here for the day,” said an hero. “Nice suicide joke, but no. Not gonna rest in perpetuity, just a single night. Kinda difficult to face the enemy of all things small and great if your funzone has been tenderized for quite a significant amount of time. Besides, William needs time to recover. His nanobots have been shaken up so much they're busy rebuilding themselves at an increasing frequency.”

“POINT, indeed. I've tried electro shock to calm them down again, and also because I like it. But it doesn't seem to do much. They keep reproducing as if they were humans in an upwardly mobile economy following world war two, causing untold overpopulation and famine down the line. But in a way that might affect me, a billionaire. So I'll need to calm down and restore my inner chi to cultivate a new centre of balance within my nanobots.”

“Is that a fancy way of saying you're visiting lots of hookers?”

“POINT, exactly. Either a hundred thin ones or the very fat one behind the counter of this place.”

“Ya best not be talkin bout me lad. I'd squeeze yas dry.”

“POINT... my surplus of nanobots can make my gender triple in size. At least. And I made certain it includes a vibrational setting comparatively strong to the blender they use for person sized offal to be centrifuged.”

“Whas he sayin?”

“That his... thingie, can end up being bigger than you. As it seems to have grown a growth setting. No matter how disturbing that may sound.”

“Thas gonna cost extra then tho. I's a fragile woman. Not built for this kinda crap.”

“POINT... with a sufficient amount of nanobots, you will be.”

“Wait,” pontificated the hero shortly, “does this mean I can also...”

“POINT... no. They require for you to spec into intelligence and machinery. Looking at your past track record, that's not a feasible avenue of exploration. Even this woman of negotiable and heavy-set virtues is more likely than you to possess the base stats to implement my fetish, I mean features.”

Disappointed, our hero went back to his room, trying to sleep through the sounds of heavy construction going on inside the next room. The drilling was sort of bearable, but our hero was terrified at the prospects the table saw provided in this feast of debauchery that could only happen if someone had intricate knowledge and experience organising a secret cabal of sex crazed maniacs back on earth. Making the freaking frogs gay and forcing people to eat their neighbour before mixing said words into a catchy tune on youtube.

He woke up not much after the couple of youngsters (feasting on the blood of infants can have that effect) broke the bed with their repetitive movements. Letting them crash through the ceiling and into the main floor where a few other patrons were still digesting their poorly named swill that tried to become beer when it grew up.

But it would never have that chance, as this society isn't run by idealists. So the children of beer must be harvested early and often, before they turn into the ember nectar of the gods. As atheists would never allow for anything to get near divinity. With god's permission of course. As gluttony is a sin after all. Also, because gods prefer to keep the higher quality beer for themselves. And because they hate human beings in general. Beer offers solace to desperate men, which is a bad thing to have if you only get hard as a god when you watch people suffer from afar. Licking their tears and sweat as they furiously spend every waking hour trying to escape their misery filled put of existence.

“Aaaand scene. My god man, if you got any more morose we'd need a 70+ label on this book and reserve it's use for euthanasia. Let's just go back to bed and pretend William isn't spearing a female individual who by now is nearly 90% breasts.”