Adam "Methos" Pierson took another long swig of beer, finishing off the mug and slamming it down on the counter. "One more for the road," he said to the bartender, his long-time colleague and friend, Joe Dawson.
"Comin' right up!" Joe nodded amiably, hobbling on his wooden legs to the tap.
Methos snickered behind his hand.
Suddenly the bar door flew open and from the bright light flooding in, the men--and the few women that were in the tavern that afternoon--could see the silhouette of an intimidating figure in the doorway.
"Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod!" Dawson called out with a wave. He continued to stare with starry eyes at the figure as it approached, oblivious to the fact that Adam's beer mug was overflowing, its contents spilling onto the floor.
With mild annoyance, Methos climbed onto the counter, reaching over to retrieve his glass and licking the precious drops from his fingers as he settled back down on his stool. While he was thus occupied with his now-free hand, Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod stole away his drink and drained it with a single gulp of his thick Scottish throat. "Hey--!"
Both Joe and Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod ignored his protest.
"Let's make love," Joe begged, giving Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod his most adorable, wide puppy eyes.
"I don't feel like it," Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod muttered under his breath.
Joe gasped. "You--don't....feel...like it?" He'd never heard those words uttered from his lover's lips! Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod always felt like it!!!
"Give me your gun, Joe."
Looking a bit puzzled, Joe turned to the register and opened a drawer down below the counter. He took out his pistol--kept just in case of a robbery or something--and handed it to him.
Without another word, Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod turned and walked to the back room, giving the door a half-hearted slam, and locked it behind him.
"...What's wrong with him?" Joe murmured worriedly.
Methos shrugged, rolling his eyes at Joe's ridiculous naiveté. "Gun... back room...? Hullo! He's going to kill himself, you moron."
Dawson gasped, raising a hand to his be-whiskered lips. "Should we call someone?"
"Nah," Methos snorted. "He does this every now and again; we all do. It's a great way to relieve stress."
"...Oh, right. Sometimes I forget he can just..."
"Yeah, he'll wake up in a few minutes and feel good as new."
"...But you don't think he'd do it right here in the bar during business hours, do you?"
In response, a thunderous gunshot rang out in the tavern.
"Indeed I do," Methos retorted.
All was silent for just a few moments as people looked around the room, wondering where the sound had come from. Then somebody began to laugh.
It was Adam.
Moments later, the bar chatter had resumed and someone fired up the jukebox. Couples danced as the sun set, and an hour later, a blood-stained Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod walked sheepishly out of Joe's back room, looking a bit disheveled but happy.