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A tall, burly man, with a full beard and dressed in denim jeans and leather jacket approaches Hector and Jack. On the jacket is a prodigious patch that reads "Satan's Servants." On his bald head is a red bandanna.
When he speaks, his voice is deep, and tinged with a back country accent, along with a fair bit of drunken slurring of his syllables.
"Who's this Nancy-Boy sitting at my bar?"
His breath smells like cheap whiskey.
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You know the worst possible thing that can happen to a person alone at a bar? Being the only dumb sap without a seat.
Zura defends his beer like he's a goddamn point guard. Shit son! Brace for impact!
The disheveled man takes a protective stance, hugging his beer close to his chest as he is jostled by a fatass sandwich. Squeezed between two unwholesomely shaped human beings, Zura gags as he catches wind of stale snatch coming out in ugly little puffs from the thing he can only describe as Mustache the Humongor.
Beer! Be my strength! He pleas, half in prayer to his drink. He takes a deep swallow, which mercifully kills off the brain cells in danger of recording the smell to memory.
He pulls himself free of the bar area, adrift in the awkward empty space between tables. His eyes are drawn towards what appears to be the start of a fight.
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"The Nancy-boy and I were just discussing how many shots of whiskey it would take for someone like to you to tell us how you got into your circle of friends."
Hector points to the 'Satan's Servants' patch.
"I'm thinking a story like that is worth listening to."
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"You're damned right it's a hell of a story. Initiation rites are a secret to non-members. I'll take that shot of whiskey anyway, though."
The prospect of free booze seems to have drawn his attention away from 'Nancy-Boy.' For now, at least.
Meanwhile, Humungor and his friend get into a shoving match that originated in a heated debate on who's bike was faster. Humungor stumbles drunkenly, after being pushed by his friend. As he tries to find his balance he, wouldn't you know it, careens right into Zura, who suddenly finds his beer-holding skills called into question.
Roll Dex+Comp-3 to hold on to that beer
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You ever get hit by a tsunami of stink? Zura feels the thudding sensation of a wall of fat and he gives way immediately.
Shuffle, shuffle, plant, one hand cupped around his brew he makes his stand. His right shoulder digs deeply into what once might have been one of Moustache's functional organs, and the man's fall is prevented.
It is a pretty rocking victory, until Zura realizes that this just may have been the coolest thing he's done in a week. That is depressing.protect what's most precious to you, 1 suxx
Instead of intervening in what may very well be conflict, Zura weasels his way into the vacated space at the bar next to Satan's Cyclist. He sets down his beer and interjects when the bartender swings over.
Shot sounds like a fuckin' great idea right now. "Plus one on the Whiskey, man."
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