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The man who stood glowering before him was so large that he blocked most of the light in a tavern room that did not have much to spare. Tattoos covered his face and most of his visible skin, and small animal bones were knotted in his bushy beard. He raised a hand like a bear's paw and set in on the table, which creaked audibly.
"I am Grognug the Unlovable, "slayer of the ogre Vaxirax and several other monsters nearly as infamous. I make it my business to kill at least one man every day with my bare hands, just to stay in practice. I give preference to those who sit on my personal stool without asking." Teeth that had clearly never undergone any process as effeminate as brushing could not be said to flash; instead, they made a brief and mossy appearance. "And who are *you*, little man?"
"My...my name is Ka-turr of Rhamzee," the other stammered, "swordsman for hire. I am...a stranger here, and do not know..."
"It is good to hear your name before I yank off your head," Grognug interrupted, "so that the bards will be able to add today's victim to the long list. The bards keep very close track of my career, you see, and they are sticklers for detail." Grognug's breath was expertly rendered, and explained the rest of his fatalistic sobriquet: the VR scent-effect would have convinced almost anyone that they were standing downwind from sun-warmed roadkill.
"Heh." Ka-turr slid his stool back. "Actually, I was just leaving."
Ten seconds later Catur Ramsey was sitting splay-legged in the street outside, laughter still echoing from the door behind him. Even he had to admit that his swift exit, ending in a pratfall, had probably been worth a chuckle or two. "Jesus!" he said. "What is with this place? That's the third bar I've been chucked out of!"
"First off," said the voice in his ear, "it's a tavern, not a bar. You gotta get this stuff straight, that's part of the problem. Everyone always picks on the virgins."
"I told you I should have been something else instead of a swordfighter- a thief, or a wizard, or something. A medieval accountant, maybe. Just because I'm pretty tall and I've got this jumbo can-opener hanging off my belt, everyone keeps picking fights with me."
"Yeah, but this way if you find a fight you can't run away from, at least you got a chance of survivin' it," Beezle pointed out in his thick Brooklyn accent. "And at the rate you're goin', you'll find one of those pretty soon..."
Ramsey picked himself up and dusted off the knees and seat of his heavy wool breaches. His sword, which he had not yet dared to draw from its scabbard, thumped against his thigh. Not only had its dangling bulk already proved a problem when running away from bar fights, it had some bizarre name which he had already forgotten.
"What's this thing called again? Slamhanger or Hamslammer or something?"
Beezle sighed, a disembodied Jiminy Cricket floating in Ramsey's ear. "It's called Slayhammer. It comes from the Temple of the Wailing God, in your home country of Rhamzee, beyond the borders of the Middle Country. How do you ever keep track of your legal stuff? You got a memory like a sieve, buddy."
"I make notes. I sit at my desk and talk to my office system. I have paralegals. I don't usually crawl through the stinking sewers of the ancient city of Margarine to do my research."
"Madrikhor. You know, if you want me to laugh at your jokes, you should turn up my conversational sensitivity a little so I'd get 'em faster."
Ramsey scowled, but could not help being a tiny bit amused by what a complete and utter disaster this was turning out to be. "Nah. You might as well save your energy for finding me someplace new to get beat up."

-Otherland, volume 3: Mountain of Black Glass, by Tad Williams