Joe McShoots spat to the side and banged his hands down on the counter again, staring fiercly into ol’ Stoogey-one-eye’s one eye. “Listen here, Stoogs. I want the strongest shit this side of the Arinard river. I don’t want no piss-water like the stuff that ol’ Skell here drinks. You get me? Now, get me the nastiest shit you’ve ever concocted.”
Skellian looked aghast. His eyes were sticking out of his head, and his jaw nearly touched the floor. “McShoots, don’t be so bloody rude, now.” He gave McShoots a clout round the ear.
McShoots didn’t even flinch. He just stood, hands still on the bar, still staring intently at the barkeep.
Stoogey looked horrified, but slowly nodded his head and wrangled his hands nervously. “Ok, youngen. If that’s what ye be wantin’. I’ve got just the stuff. You better come wit’ me.”
Stoogey gestured them to come behind the bar, and soon they were following him down a long, winding set of steps through a trap door.
“Down here, ye travelin’ weirdos, yer gonna find the most messed up drink known to this great holy earth.”
They followed ol’ Stoogey down the steps, past numerous cobwebs and dusty sconces protruding from the stone walls. Joe Mcshoots was jumping up and down with excitement. Skellian had his hand on his sword pommel, ready for something bad to happen. “This better not be a trick, Stoogey,” Skellian said. “I don’t like them tricks.”
Stoogey pushed open a large oak door, deep down in the dark belly of the inn. “Oh, my dear Skellian. A trick, this is not.”
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