"Ya think ya know the whole story huh?" a squat graying figure spits out from the long end of a scarred wooden table. The deep sound of phlegm being roused from its slumber in the man's lungs breaks the momentary silence. A toothy, decayed sneer soon follows. "You don't know nothin'," he growls, "all that an'one's ever heard is what they want yeh to hear! No one ever gets to hear the real story." A slow and tremulous nod is given off by the six other men who sit haphazard around the speaker, each mimicking the others uneasy smiles. As you sit there, you can't help but feel uneasy as seven yellowed eyes turn towards you, leering. The one to break the silence speaks again, raising his forearm up to the table in order to lean on it, and lean closer to you. His upper lip curls revealing a blackened canine, his tongue flicks upward in a polishing gesture. He leans back, folding both arms over his stocky chest. Only now do you notice his stature, or rather, lack of. He grins, and you imagine it to be his best attempt at a charming smile, though it is sorely lacking in the genuineness needed to make it a comforting one. He reaches up with one gnarly hand, his stubby fingers wrapping clumsily around the wire of a pair of old glasses as he brings them down to what appears to be the befouled remains of a red tunic; he cleans them, though to no avail, and replaces them back on his face. Leaning back, he pulls his arms behind his head, flattening his palms against the back of his skull. Spitting again he mumbles "You can call me Doc… And if yer willin', I'd be more than happy to tell you what really happened to Snow White."