Disclaimer: I don't own anything from Fable.
The tavern had never been as crowded in the afternoon as it was today. But of course, Maxiey's victory over the ridiculously dressed and apparently pregnant Morphumax was a cause for celebration, as well as a cause for a picking-up-things-with-your-toes contest.
Everyone stumbled around, tripping over each other in their haste to buy Maxiey a drink, telling the hobbe to take it easy. Unfortunately, the more drinks people ordered for him, the more drinks Maxiey had to stumble around, tripping over people to serve. The irony of that, however, was lost on the citizens, who were soon stumbling around, tripping over each other in a drunken stupor.
"Maxiey, we're running out of apples," Mr. Pooplewagon said.
Maxiey grunted.
"No, no, stay here. You've earned all the attention," the big-bellied boss insisted as the people of Bowerstone continued to stagger around, drunk and not paying the least mind to Maxiey. "I'll go get some more from the Guild."
Maxiey grunted.
"It's not stealing, per say. After all, they're just on the ground. All I do is pick them up."
Maxiey grunted.
"That doddery old fool? He may have a weird patch of discoloured skin that could be some warped tattoo of a whale, but that don't stop him from getting old. He used to be one of the best warriors in Albion, but nowadays he just has bad eyesight, bladder problems, and a weird patch of discoloured skin that could be some warped tattoo of a whale. He'd forget his own name of it wasn't stitched on his underwear. He won't notice a thing."
Maxiey grunted.
"I shouldn't be gone long." The tavern owner walked out, presumably to the Guild, leaving Maxiey at the helm.
But as the day wore on and began to turn into night, the citizens returned home and it was apparent that Mr. Pooplewagon was gone for much longer than intended. And as the night wore on and began to turn into morning, Maxiey became worried. What if some unimaginably horrible incident had befallen his boss? He had heard that the Guild kept a rare castrating mountain monkey somewhere in the building purely for intellectual interest. Shuddering at the very thought, Maxiey realized he would have to search for Mr. Pooplewagon himself.
Leaving the tavern in the far from capable hands of Fran Fran would be as good as lighting the whole place on fire, so Maxiey put up a public notice about a job vacancy.
As most of the Bowerstone citizens were stumbling around, tripping over each other while having balvarine-sized hangovers, the turnout was far from favourable. The only four applicants were a chicken farmer in a stuffed chicken suit, a bodybuilder named Krunk the Nimrod, a guard called Bobbers, and the twitchy schoolteacher.
As Maxiey wanted to start the search as soon as possible (he'd heard nasty things about the castrating mountain monkey), he decided to have an open interview with all four of them at once.