Strong Bad slipped his newly-reacquired shutter shades into his pocket. He had no problem with betting them in a game of poker because he was confident that by the end of the night they would be in his possession, be it by fair means or otherwise. "They always come back…" he chuckled, placing a hand over his pocket.
He started making his way to the exit, only he soon realised that he had no idea where that was. The Inventory was a mysterious room in the centre of a multi-dimensional hub that was subject to doing whatever it wanted. (How exactly can you tell a room what to do?) The exit constantly shifted, and sometimes players would be teleported back to their respective worlds immediately after the game. Strong Bad swore the room had it in for him, because he was always the last one to get home. He looked around briefly, trying to find the helpful red sign that would get him out of the temperamental room and back to his stable basement.
As Strong Bad's gaze shifted, a figure caught his eye. Turning to see the unlucky soul also trapped in the gloomy bar, he realised it was none other than his pretentious not-friend Tycho. He was his not-friend for these reasons: he knew far too many words, upstaged him quite often, and rolled that stupid multi-sided die every five seconds. He also had a weird last name.
Strong Bad was about to continue his quest for an exit when he noticed that Tycho was staring at him with a slightly worrying look in his eyes. He had his homicidal moments now and again, sure, but this look was somehow even scarier than when his eyes turned threateningly scarlet. Feeling more than a little creeped out, Strong Bad started walking in the opposite direction.
"You either have a ridiculous amount of luck or you somehow have some kind of skill buried under that arrogant exterior...though I highly doubt the latter." Strong Bad spun around to see Tycho rubbing his wrist where his watch had been earlier that evening (before poor judgement and one hell of a hand had relieved him of it.) Strong Bad had no possession of the watch at any point during the game, but he did momentarily consider swiping it…before he realised he was seated between a freelance cop and a Russian with a freaking huge gun. Not a great idea to follow through with.
"What the crap is that supposed to mean?" Strong Bad retorted. He tensed as Tycho took a few steps toward him, his gaze becoming more threatening with every passing second. The expression "if looks could kill" doesn't even compare to this in any way, at all, ever. This guy belonged in a straightjacket, in a padded cell, in a mental hospital...underground.
Strong Bad backed up a bit, bumping directly into the poker table. He held his ground as Tycho continued to close the gap between them, putting on the most disinterested face he could muster. In his mind, he looked totally calm…though in reality his expression flinched with each foot the imposing figure drew closer.
Soon Tycho was only a few inches away from him. Strong Bad placed one hand on the table behind him, preparing to launch himself back over it and bolt if necessary. Unfortunately his reflexes were not quick enough and he was slammed forcefully backwards onto the table, one hand around his throat and another pushing down on the green material just to his right. His mind had barely a second to comprehend what had happened before he was being glared threateningly at from only a few inches away. No words formed in his mind so Strong Bad just glared back at his attacker as menacingly as he could, hoping to throw him off. …It didn't.
Tycho's firm grip around Strong Bad's neck loosened slightly, and his eyes softened just a tiny bit. Seeing these feeble attempts to turn the situation around was…amusing. His hand was now resting lightly on Strong Bad's neck, and migrated slowly to his jaw. This resulted in a very wide, very surprised pair of green eyes staring back at him.
Getting a reaction like that was exactly what motivated Tycho to start this whole thing in the first place. To see the smug, overly-confident masked man lose his composure gave him more joy than anything…more joy than rolling a twenty - no, fifty twenties - and destroying the dreams of all who partook in playing his game. Sure it was sadistic at best, but as they say: sadists are the ultimate optimists. While others are happy despite of suffering, sadists are happy because of it.
Strong Bad's cheeks turned red under his mask as he felt Tycho's fingers trace his jaw line and rest on his cheek. His brain could not compute the situation, so he was powerless to do anything but stare dumbly at Tycho. At least he didn't have to worry about being murdered anymore.
Then, just as quickly as it had all begun, Tycho's hand left Strong Bad's face and grabbed the shutter shades out of his pocket. He slipped them on and walked off casually, finding the exit immediately. Strong Bad pushed himself up off the table, scowling at the incredibly mocking exit sign where Tycho's figure had been moments ago. He had now lost his crazy awesome glasses, and more importantly, his dignity. There is no way he would take that lying down, especially not pinned to a poker table.
"It is so on now."