SIMON THE BARTENDER WRAPS UP BEATING THE TROOPERS INTO SUBMISSION. HE DROPS THE COMMANDER, BLOODIED AND WEAK, ONTO THE FLOOR. HE STOPS AND LOOKS AROUND, WATCHING THE CHAOS AROUND HIM UNFOLD. PEOPLE FROM ALL CORNERS OF THE UNIVERSE COMING TOGETHER TO BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF EACH OTHER IN A MASSIVE, DRUNKEN FURY. BIONIC LIZARD-MEN, TROLLS FROM THE DEPTHS OF THE SEA, MEN IN RUBBER ANIMAL MASKS, AND AT LEAST ONE MARVEL CHARACTER. THEM, AND MANY MORE, ALL HERE, ALL FIGHTING.
THIS USED TO BE A NICE PLACE, REALLY.
SIMON SNAPS OUT OF HIS MOMENT OF MID-BATTLE ZEN, TURNING HIS HEAD TOWARDS THE BAR ENTRANCE AS A MAN DRESSED AS UNCLE SAM BURSTS THROUGH THE DOOR, TWO BALD EAGLES PERCHED ON HIS SHOULDERS. GLORIOUS, HEAVENLY LIGHT ILLUMINATES HIM FROM BEHIND.
EVERYONE STOPS FIGHTING FOR A MOMENT, TURNING THEIR ATTENTION TOWARDS HIM.
HE SCANS THE CROWD, AND THEN HOLDS OUT HIS HAND. AN INTACT COLD BEER FLIES FROM OUT OF NOWHERE INTO HIS GRASP. ONE OF THE EAGLES PRIES THE CAP OFF WITH ITS BEAK, AND UNCLE SAM TAKES A SWIG OF THE GOLDEN BREW. HE FINISHES, NODS, AND CALMLY SETS THE BEER ON THE NEAREST TABLE THAT HASN’T BEEN OVERTURNED.
AN EXPRESSION OF PURE ANGER OVERCOMES HIM, AND HE RIPS OFF HIS JACKET AND SHIRT. THE EAGLES FLY AWAY FROM HIM AND SCREECH, AND HE LETS OUT A PATRIOTIC WAR CRY. HE CHARGES THE NEAREST LIVING THING AND TACKLES IT THROUGH A WALL.
EVERYONE YELLS, AND THE FIGHTING RECOMMENCES.