"...And DAT'S whens I SLUGG'D 'IM right in da FACE! RUHAHAHARR!"
The man sitting beside him, a cross between a man, a bear and a brick shithouse, had bitten onto his nerves long ago. Vaele, having had enough four Tonics ago, swipes a black hand over his forehead and groans long and loud. The one day - the ONE fucking day - he doesn't want to be so much as LOOKED at, and this moron plonks down beside him, four wenches strong. One on each of his arms. ..Three, four... Yes, he counts four.
"DAMN it, you pestilent, yeasty codpiece - SHUT UP."
A large, spider-like hand comes across the huge man-beast's line of vision before crushing his skull, startling the grizzly bartender and his posse of prostitutes. They run, screaming, from the mass of blood, fat and bone as the now dead guest falls to the floor. Half of his skull is strewn across the already grimy floor, but the rest of the tavern's occupants take no heed. This sort of thing happens far too often in this particular establishment.
Sitting back down, rather calmly at that, Vaele wipes blood from his wrist and downs the rest of his glass before looking around. Who else could he fuck with tonight?
