WELL-GROOMED MAN IN SUIT STRUTS THROUGH THE COMMOTION. ORC BARBARIAN ATTEMPTS TO PILE DRIVE HIM, SUIT DELIVERS A SWIFT KICK TO THE ORC’S GUT, GRABS HIS FOOT, AND FLIPS HIM OVER. HE WORKS HIS WAY THROUGH THE CROWD UNTIL HE FINDS THE BLOODIED BARTENDER BEATING THE SNOT OUT OF A TROLL WITH HER OWN SEVERED HORN.

“SIMON, WHAT THE FUCK?” THE SUIT CALLS OUT. THE BARTENDER, NAME REVEALED TO BE SIMON (TRULY A BITCH MONIKER) TURNS HIS BARE HEAD AND DROPS THE TROLL ON THE FLOOR, AND THEN KICKS HER INTO THE NEAREST WALL.

“WHAT?” SIMON REPLIES, ARMS STRETCHED OUT IN A MOCKING FASHION.

“I’M PAYING YOU TO RUN A BAR, NOT A FIGHT CLUB, YOU FUCKING CHROME DOME.” THE SUIT SAYS ANGRILY.

“WELL FUCK YOU, GUY.” SIMON SHOUTS BACK, POINTING.

THAT DID IT. SUIT CLENCHED HIS FISTS AND BEGAN MAKING HIS WAY TOWARDS SIMON, WHO RAISED HIS FISTS IN PREPARATION FOR A RIGHT TUSSLE. UN/FORTUNATELY, SUIT WAS PROMPTLY GRABBED BY THE TALONS OF A CRAZED HARPY, AND WHISKED UP INTO THE OPEN SPACE ABOVE THE BRAWLING PATRONS. THERE WAS A SURPRISING AMOUNT OF HEIGHT TO THE ESTABLISHMENT’S INTERIOR TO ALLOW FOR SUCH A FEAT.

“THIS ISN’T OVER, SIMON!” THE SUIT CALLS OUT, SHAKING HIS FIST MADLY. SIMON TURNS HIS HEAD TOWARDS A TROOP OF WELL-ARMORED SPACE-FARING TROOPERS, NO DOUBT OFF DUTY, POSSIBLY IN SEARCH OF A GOOD RUCKUS. WELL, THEY CERTAINLY GOT ONE, REGARDLESS.

THEY ALL TURNED TOWARDS SIMON, AND THE TROOP COMMANDER RAISED HIS METAL FINGER. “YOU.” HE CALLED OUT IN THE MOST SERIOUS OF TONES, “THIRTY-NINE BULLETS.”

SIMON DID NOT RESPOND. HE SIMPLY CHARGED FORTH, AND UNLEASHED THE FULL FURY OF A BARTENDER SCORNED.