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"So, in my father's day it was just, [i]'The Drum.'[/i]  Back then, the place was more akin to The Brass Monkey a real rowdy lot."  Zell sat thoroughly entertained as he ate his dinner at the bar in Second Chance's home away from home.  "Then, one day - back when the Cherryball fan rivalry was at it's height - a  brawl broke out, I mean crazy-like.  As the Quinity as my witness, I swear I ain't never saw nothing like it.  Musta been half a hundred men beating the ever-loving snot out of eachother.  Fists, feet, furniture, even weapons and magic got used.  Mass arrests, casualties - a bloke even died.  The death was an accident of course.  Nobody's ever trying to commit murder over the sport of Cherryball, but passion got the better of everyone that day."

"Oh, you don't have to tell me, bruv," Zell said with a full mouth.  He swallowed his mouth-full of food with one noticeably painful gulp, then continued.  "Back where I'm from, it's the same with Football.  It's practically a religion and I ain't ashamed to admit it.  I bleed Chelsea FC."

Frederick tilted his head in understanding.  "Then we understand eachother.  I bleed Eastenders Cherryball Warriors."  They both grinned.  "But that day, [i]'The Drum'[/i] was rightly named [i]'The Broken Dum,'[/i] for all the damage the building came out with.  Had that name for about a year or two.  Took a while to get eveything all fixed up while, at the same time, keeping the business afloat.  Cost my father his hair in stress.  I took over and started banning all the Cherryball goons.  Banned the wearing of colours... everything.  Eventually, the mobs took their business elsewhere and the clientele began to change into what you see today.  Now it's [i]'The Mended Drum.'[/i]"

"Ha! That's a fucking great story, boss."  Zell looked around.  "You've done a right good job with the place.  I'm into this kinda vibe, meself.  I mean; fuck, I'll roll around in the mud when situation calls for it, sure.  But in my old line of work, happy drunks buy a lot more drugs than angry drunks.  And I'm more of a lover than a fighter, personally."

Frederick raised his eyebrows and bounced back, "That Source Crystal says otherwise!"

"Ha! Got me there, I suppose."  Zell conceded.  He went back to his food as Frederick shifted over to serve another customer.  Zell smiled to himself as he ate, putting forth the case in his mind that he [i]really[/i] wasn't the fighting type, back home.  He was a fairly disciplined athlete.  He didn't eat crap, he didn't do drugs.  He was no coward, but he did have 'Muscle' he could call upon when shit hit the fan.  His only weakness was girls and beer, but he never let those things misalign his focus when it came to football or his miniture drug empire.  And when he recently got his act together and started studying properly, he didn't even let football or his operation get in the way of [i]that[/i].  Zell Brooks was a goofball, no doubt about it, but when he set his mind to something, there was no stopping him.

[i]A much simpler time,[/i] Zell remembered with melancholy.  [i]Fuck, I miss London.[/i]

It seemed like forever ago, he'd been through so much since.  And right now, things were anything [i]but[/i] simple.  He wanted to apologise to James, for wasting his time with that ritual - to tell his best friend that if they could [i]just[/i] wait until after the big battle, he would be ready-like-Eddy to give up The Black Sword.  He wanted so badly to confront MacKensie about what happened on their non-date - how it all ended, the morning after - but he knew she would hear no part of it.

[i]And you want to leave with The Ambassador.  Leave your friends.  Seek greener pastures.  Because you know that is the best course of action.[/i]

Zell shook those thoughts away, not even sure if those thoughts were his own or Baphomet's.  It made sense.  He had a way out of this desperate situation.  And he had made a friend in Ambassador Malcom Crane who might give him a leg-up onto the political ladder.  The temptation was grating in the back of his mind.

One thing about Baphomet - love him or hate him - was that:  He was right more often than not.

[i]Fuck.[/i]