First I had to check out the heavy cavalry. The brigade. The police force. The po pos. The shut up already.
Anyways, I was seriously disappointed. There were only two people who could be considered guards in this town, Booker and Copper; two dogs with minimal police and defense training who really just sat there for when you wanted to open the gate, a task that apparently you could not undertake yourself.
The first, Booker, was the classic stoner. There was no doubt about it he had been taking these drugs recreationally before the lasagne. This guy was tired as well as a fatass. He could not keep things organized. He was trained to change the town flag at anybody's will (I could imagine this being a problem in so many ways-Nazi takeover anyone?) and keeping the lost and found together, albeit not very well. All there ever was were pitfall seeds, and I could never forgive him despite his profuse apologies for losing my Mr. Mittens doll.
The second dog was Copper, the one who was always opening the door for you, unless he was standing at salute acting all pompous, prim, proper and just in general British. He spoke in a formal manner that drove me insane. It was almost more certain this dog was being laced, because nobody has that vocabulary in real life. It's the kind of vocabulary a drunken scholar would use, and I highly doubt he ISN'T one.
A quick conversation with these druggies confirms my suspicions; they are beyond stoned and beyond competent. I'm not really even sure they comprehended what I was trying to tell them, between Copper's language (I couldn't understand what HE was saying) and Booker's snot bubbles drifting out of his nose with every waking drunken snort.
I shook my head as I walked out of the foyer to the town. This was going to take some work.