Deth Killer was here earlier. Stanley’s not smiling. He’s wiping up spilled ammonia from the bar. He was looking for you.

Me? What the fuck?

I didn’t ask. Whaddya want. Not a question. Stanley never asked. Statement.

Ahm, mentholated shitsturber, Stan. Nods and turns to the supplies. Stanley is back with an organic vapour visor over his bald head. Is he coming back?

I told him when you are usually here. He’s uncorking a brown bottle of something viscous. Sorry man, I don’t fuck with Deth.

S’ok. We’re cool. Semi-autonomous cloud of green vapour is hollaring something about hairclippings in his sausage. Stanley dustbusts him up without batting an eye. Vapour mask is off now. Canister out of the back of the dustbuster. Special modification for capturing these shaftjobs he explains tapping a couple of drops of heavy black liquid into a shot glass. It begins to hum. Sec, chum. He sloshes a sour splash of Little Kremlin vodkee over the dark spots and waves a lit wooden match over the concoction. A jet of green flame farts up for a nanosecond leaving the distinct smell of burnt wiener in the air. Fiddybuk, Stanley drawls.

Glass caps on the counter swept into his apron. Here he is now. Stanley is to the end of the bar recieving another drink order. Deth Killer is standing in the shadow of the entrance.

Deep sinus murk. Crushing blindness. Deafening osmotic mildew invasion and staggering heat. Deth Killer moves without moving. Sand is his hourglass and your are the days of his lives. What? He is upon everyone at once. Whispers. Torment. Flatulence.

Cut that shit out! Stanley’s lost his cool for a moment, but it’s ok. He’s in charge here. Yer bothering the customers!

Apologies. Beam focused. One bothered customer.