# Always A Bar

By Bryant Durrell.

Richie Tsao is so cool.

He walks into the Faded Jade like he could own the place any time he wanted to, but he has better things to do with his time; wanders over to the bar, sauntering all the way. His suit is new, like it always is -- probably never been worn before. The bartender has his drink waiting for him when he gets there. The Buro punk I'm doing business with wants to know if it's true, the rumor he's heard.

It turns out to be the one about demon's blood in Richie's drinks. I tell him yes, but I'm laughing inside. Every half-decent mage knows that you do too much demon's blood and you start growing tentacles, you know? The Buro has piss-poor training.

I let my attention drift back to Richie. All the punk has to offer is a load of petrified demon testicles from 1850, and that isn't half as interesting as the eunuchs at the bar. One of the imperials is waving his hands angrily, silk robes swishing, laccquered fingernails coming threateningly close to passing strangers. I shift a little closer, because (as mother always said) my curiosity will kill me one day and maybe Richie won't get upset if I eavesdrop.

There's a huge flash. I start composing my apology, and hope I can get it out in time for it to matter. Then I hear the sound of a grenade going off in close quarters, and I begin to wonder.

Sure enough, when my vision clears, there's half a strike team coming in through a hole in one wall. Lodge? No, they're dressed like refugees from a thrift store convention. Must be Dragons. I'd yawn if it wasn't for the big guy carrying a full auto shotgun, which explains the hole. The bartender vanishes behind the bar.

My friend the Buro punk leaps to his feet. Everyone's gotta be a hero, I guess. He's spitting out a string of technomantic syllables when the big guy makes a hole in him, case closed, pity he won't be reporting back. I drop under the table and pick his pockets.

The rest of their team pours through the wall. There's a redhead who'd be eyecatching under other circumstances, but that sword of hers ruins the effect; she's flanked by a wiry white kid with an overly complex sight on his pistol and a severely tanned man -- far past retirement age -- with a swordcane.

It's a good time to give up on the punk's wallet. Richie is spreading his eunuchs out in a defensive line while he slashes at his wrists for a blood sacrifice. Very calm, our Richie. The redhead is slicing through sorcerors with immaculate style, but the bartender's coming up behind her in full demonic form.

Big Guy turns out to be surprisingly fast, though, and the bartender doesn't last too long. The rest of the strike team is causing massive chaos in the rest of the bar, but you know that any room with Richie in it is going to focus on him, especially when he's the main target of a Dragon strike team. And that's the way it is here.

The gent with the swordcane advances, sketching a rune of dismissal in the air with its tip and calling the words that match. I've never heard anyone speak Sanskrit with a British accent before, but it doesn't impress Richie much. One of the eunuchs gestures, calling on the Cat Demons of the Three Hells, and sends a streamer of calligraphy-inscribed ribbons out to suck the Brit's blood.

The room's rocking to the sound of shotgun shells, and the sibilance of ancient chants, and from time to time someone screams as one of the bartender's body parts squirms across the floor. The redhead is parrying every damn spell she sees with her sword, while Mr. Target Pistol plinks away at eunuchs. I barely have time to wonder how she's doing it when Richie cuts the last line in his skin, and barks out a rather terse spell, and the entire bar goes very very white for a little while.

When I can see again, Richie is standing in the middle of the bar with a smirk upon his lips. The Dragons are sprawled all over the place; it looks like the redhead blew it this time. Big Guy isn't moving either, and Mr. Target Pistol is twitching a little, but maybe it's just reflex. You can never tell with the skinny ones.

Richie turns his back to take his seat again. Oddly enough, he's got the only bar stool in the joint that's still intact. The bartender's left arm squirms over to get him another drink -- now that's service. Target Pistol's left hand comes out from under his body with a grenade that looks like it's seen extensive third party modifications. "Richie," I yell. "Grenade!"

And as he turns around, as everyone realizes that Target Pistol pulled the pin about five seconds ago, as the shockwave of the explosion hits our skin and we all say our various prayers and curses, Richie just sort of shrugs and meets the Dragon's eyes and lifts his drink in cool salute to the man who just killed him.

I've got to admit. Even when he's dying --

Richie Tsao is so cool.

Shadowfist and Feng Shui: The Shadowfist Roleplaying Game as well as all characters described therein are copyrights and trademarks of Daedalus Entertainment, Inc. All rights reserved.

Last modified: September 12, 1996;