(Untitled)

[mydearguil]

*Walks downstairs, jauntily, but without his usual stick. Hangs calligraphed parchment sign next to the bar; the text of the sign reads, in an ornate late gothic hand, "Wanted: a swordstick repairperson. Apply to Guildenstern or Rosencrantz." Tosses a coin on the bar.* A glass of claret, please.

Comments

[mydearguil]

*glances around the bar, tosses another coin and requests another claret*

[pubdog]

*slyly looks to see if coin came up heads or tails*

Evening sir. *pours you a claret* any food with that?

[mydearguil]

*without looking* Heads. Did you mention a deep-fried paradox special? I'll take one, and if you could send some toasted sarcasm upstairs, Rosencrantz will welcome it. He's feeling a bit unwell at the moment.

[pubdog]

Coming up, sir *dishes up a plate of what looks and tastes precisely like onion rings would not*

*tosses some toasted sarcasm in a box* Er, does he want hot sauce with those, do you think?