"Kalashnikov's", Zvezdny Gorodok

[Inquisitor Gaunt]

Simon wandered stupidly into the bar, a pint in one hand, and a neural net calling frequency in the other. He grinned rediculously large, tossing a glance over the bar, before holding up the glass, sloshing beer all over his mufti. He cursed loudly, accent too thick and slurred to make any sense of the statement.

He looked over at the Commissars, slouching his head to the left, before shaking it suddenly, deciding not to mess with those mad bastards. Sure it was Christmas, but that was a...religious...opiate of the masses-

His mind went blank for a moment, too addled with booze to form a cognitive thought. It rebooted at the last one that made sense: Commissars are bad. Even on Christmas.

With his new found wisdom, he planted himself on a bar stool and ordered another pint to the replace the one now splayed out along his arm.

" 'Iveusa pint, mate!" he said, words caught so close together they were nigh on indistinguishable.

While the bartender slipped over, rolling his eyes before drawing a glassfull from the tap, Simon looked up, groggily blinking at the relatively low slung celing before recognizing the song playing in the background. He jumped to his feet, hands thrown in the air before beginning to sing drunkedly along. Another patron shot him an annoyed glance, telling him to sit down and shut up. He was lucky the Newcastler was pissed, no-one really wanted a lumbering pile of Molly muscle slapping them down on Christmas, and Simon was happy to oblige that, for now.

He swivled on the chair, drumming the table with a finger to signal for another drink, before taking it and swaggering over to nearby the Commissars, tugging a pack of cards from his pocket. He wasn't going to interupt the BLAM kings, but by god if they wanted a game of strip poker, too, they'd have it!

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