Whether by accident or design, it turned out to be a remarkably efficient strategy for dealing with Guerlaghiix the Fry Snatcher. Observers from the Jolly Junta in booth twelve nodded appreciatively, enjoying their recently served meal and the (admittedly rather condensed) display of how diplomacy serves as a prelude to war. The Will had begun with diplomatic overtures, presenting their viewpoint in a way that didn't make them seem weak. Some of the Junta were taking notes, scribbling frantically on their paper napkins while keeping their eyes on the Battle At Booth Seven. 

 Then came the rearmament stage of the war. Vanessa made it clear through her actions that Booth Seven was more than capable of defending itself, and that the military might of Booth Seven could very quickly be brought to bear. Then, the distraction - a last minute play at appeasement that would lower the defences of this invader. The faux-leather jacket would surely initially appeal to their sense of pride, until such a time that they'd recognise the insult of using such an infantile thing, a child's rattle, on the design. Finally, there came the [s]hammer[/s] wrench blow, the swift, decisive action that exploited their lowered guard. The war would be over in a single stroke. In it's own way, the Battle At Booth Seven bore similarities to the campaigns waged by the greatest warmongers the galaxy had ever known. Certainly, the government-in-exile of the Jolly Junta were appreciative of it, and those that weren't busily engaged in writing down their thoughts on how it served as a microcosm of their first coup were on their seats, whooping, yelling and punching the air.

 Guerlaghiix was not a military historian and so could not appreciate any of this. He did have a qualification from [i]Pericles University Of Culinary Acceptability[/i], and his final project on anti-gravity quiche was the talk of the campus for months, but the military applications of such a dish were never taken seriously. From his perspective, it was something of a blur, culminating in a fairly serious blow from a slightly less serious looking man. As he slowly crumpled to the floor, eyeball swivelling about in his head, he gave out a strained, and quite possibly final, order to his gang.

 "[color=fff79a]Avenge... me... boys...[/color]"

 The Flaughjinks stood up, as one, bumping their heads against the ceiling. None of them seemed particularly keen to do much in the way of avenging, especially as an ice pack, a trip to a back-alley DocBot and a few days of rest would probably see Guerlaghiix back on his feet. After a brief whispered conversation between the Flaughjinks, one of them was shoved out and sent stumbling towards the quietly snoring Guerlaghiix and the occupants of Booth Seven. This one had two eyes with which to look apologetic, and with his hands in the air, he gave Guerlaghiix a gentle poke with his foot.

 "[color=6ecff6]You okay, boss?[/color]"

 The boss grunted quietly.

 "[color=6ecff6]You want us to, uh, smoke these fools,[/color]" it was clear from his expression and the tone of his voice that his heart was really not into it, and it was only because his boss was almost entirely unresponsive that he would dare ask this question. Guerlaghiix grunted again before slipping into blessed unconsciousness. With some face saved for the time being, the Bravest Of The Flaughjinks started on trying to lift Guerlaghiix to his feet. Considering the size, spindly shape and general awkwardness of their species, it wasn't easy.