By Sal on a perverted and nonsensical spree of thought

"Your face makes me want to puke."

"Good." Said the champion with his arms crossed, sweeping a look of disdain over the table before him as though the food and drink were poisoned. Across from him, the stalker was snarling in a decidedly canine fashion similar to the matyr, a dog-like beast that was sitting just below the table.

"Maybe after puking, you would tell me why..." The champion swept a gauntleted hand over the scene and remarked pointedly, "you insisted we, no, you and I come to a...bar?"

"Yes I see that through your pea-sized brain you have realised this is a bar. And only in a bar is where men should be seen talking. Not that you would know anything about it...And no, you may not touch the chicken, or the beer."

"Make more references to my intelligence and you can talk to my fists."

"You weren't usually this eloquent around her."

"I suppose you weren't usually this...ah, out in the open around her either."

"What are you trying to insinuate? That I stalk her all day?"

"I believe people of your ilk are named 'stalkers'."

"You're a champion. But how come all I see is a dumbass?"

A well-barbecued chicken flew across and hit with a loud splat on the wall at the far end of the bar. A few splinters fell from the ceiling. The matyr that was sitting below the table yawned and trotted to the desecrated bird, gobbling it up in a few bites.

"Hey, I said no touch the chicken!" The stalker protested as if Gods themselves were violated by this act. "It was not the time!"

"Next thing will be the beer, and against your head." The champion replied nonchalantly, patting rid his gloves of grease. "If there's nothing you'd rather do than sit here and insult me. I think I will go do something useful with my life now."

"Fine. Don't say I didn't try to make friends--" The thief class took a gulp of liquid and mumbled something along the lines of "with a lower-life form."

(It should be noted that rogues are gargantuan hypocrites)

"Your effort astounds me." The fist-fighter remarked dryly, "But I wonder, why suddenly the...remarkable charity?"

"Because it has come to my attention that..." The stalker announced in a serious tone, "You are a depressing rival."

The champion raised an eyebrow at the person across from him as if he had suddenly sprouted peco feathers.

"And I am now doing you a great favour by letting you share in the glory of the presence of real men."

"The glory of the presence of real men is a bar in Morocc?"

"Precisely, there would be no fun winning you too easily. I am also appalled that you have no idea what AWESOME SAUCE is."

"...what the hell is that?"

The stalker seemed horrified, which was not an expression he put on often so nothing could be said about its integrity. But he raised a hand and shouted "BARTENDER!"

"Yeh? Whu' can I geh fer yeh?"

"Awesome sauce. Whole bottle of it. Chopchop."

As the bartender went rummaging in the bottom drawers of his counter for said sauce. The champion wondered if the desert heat had gotten to him sooner than expected.

"Are you...or me...sane?" He finally asked.

"Yes, I am quite. Not sure about you." The stalker replied. "BARTENDER! Sauce, now!"

A petrified intake of breath indicated that something was wrong. Very wrong. The bartender had a hand to his mouth and the other was holding a bottle half-filled with what seems like viscous milk. The attention of the entire bar, which consisted of many greedy eyes, was instantly riveted to the container.

"Dere--dere's only one, no, 'alf a bottle left! O' Awesum Sawce!"

"Aw-Awesome sauce!" The entire bar exploded with conversation, but all eyes have not left the bartender's right hand.

"Most...exquisite...flavour..."

"I've still got half a steak left with no sauce!"

"Only half a bottle left? I offer two hundred thousand zennies for it!"

"Are you crazy?! I'd give at least a million!"

"SHUT UP IMBECILES." The stalker stood up and commanded in his best I-am-a-stalker-fear-me voice. "I called the shots first, it's mine!" He then proceeded to reach out and grab the bottle from the bartender's still trembling hand.

A flying dagger knocked the bottle expertly away before the rogue could get to it, a dark figure somersaulted in and caught the flavouring in mid-air.

"What the shit..." The stalker cursed as three assassins showed themselves in identical attire and appearance. The one in the middle held a bottle. White, oozy liquid tumbled lazily within its glass case. "Who are you? And return my Awesome Sauce at once!"

"We are the assassin triplets. For years we have been in search of the legendary Awesome Sauce as it was the dying wish of our fath--"

"Don't know. Don't care. Save the chatter, ladies." Interrupted the stalker, "Hand back the awesome sauce! Get 'em, boys!"

There was a flurry of movement as all men (there were only men at that time, and maybe not all men, since the champion did not join in the activity because of its utter ridiculousness) in the bar dove towards the assassin triplets like a horde of wild dogs. The bottle somehow yet again found itself in the air, floating upwards through the cracks of fingers and past many, many hairy arms. Until a hand finally got hold of it, but never for long because its owner would then be crushed under the weight of many bodies and have the bottle yanked away from his hand, then to have the whole process repeated again.

The champion was inching towards the door, trying to be very discreet. But a 6-foot odd man with well-built muscles and a large, golden belt can only be one degree of discreet. Which is not. But it probably counted for something at that time since every other breathing being was after half a tiny unimpressive bottle of sauce.

"One for all! And all for sauce!" Cried someone through the mayhem, but he was soon stampeded into silence. And the stalker suddenly found himself in possession of a certain bottle. He heard roars of hunger behind him, and decided it was time to become a little more sneaky.

"Time to poof." He remarked to himself and disappeared in a cloud of dust, cackling gleefully as the people behind plunged into empty space while he made a mad dash towards the door. Then tripped.

It was easy to forget you still existed in time and space while you were invisible.

The bottle zoomed forward with unneccessary velocity, then decided it probably had enough and would someone just please smash it to pieces to end the suffering, uncorked itself and spilled its contents onto what would become an unfortunate target before committing suicide on the brick flooring.

"NOOOOOOO!" The stalker cried. "The last half-bottle of Awesome Sauce! Noooooo!!"

But all was not completely lost! There was still a good portion not on the floor mingled with hell knows what. The rogue class dove towards the unspoiled puddle without a second thought. Every last bit must be salvaged! But what the hell is this red and white cloth in the way? The stalker was a stalker after all, and pieces of clothing were not a problem, since he had a few skills that dealt with such things in his command. Fwoosh! It was good as gone. But the sauce is starting to drip and if he doesn't save it quick--

He stuck out his tongue and licked it. Ahh, that heavenly flavour coursing through the tastebuds, it only served to make him take another lick, and another and...well, it was a bit saltier than he had remembered...

The stalker then realised a few things.

One. The sauce was not splattered on a conveniently placed flesh-coloured screen at the door of the pub.

Two. He took a look, then a very good look, then backed away and wished he would drop dead. But it was a good move on his part to have ONLY divested the shirt. And nothing else. And he thanked whatever gods there might be that he hadn't, for some reason, used full divest. Champion with a frozen expression of shock on his face, no upper shirt, and chest area wet. Check.

Three. The commotion had stopped in the bar, in fact, the silence was still like death.

Four. He must poison all the wells in Morocc.

-End-