To Jones's great displeasure, there was only one pub in town, a small, decomposing shack with a sign reading G'Wain's above the door. The buildings surrounding it were all in dire need of new paint and wood. Most didn't even have signs of their own.
Gripping the iron latch in his hand, Jones, followed closely by Cassandra, opened the heavy wooden door and entered the pub. To their surprise, it was clean and smelled of freshener, and the furnishings gave it the appearance of a tacky, discount Medieval Times.
A tall man wearing a green tank-top, jeans covered in green paint, and green-and-black sneakers was waiting for them at the counter. "Welcome, friends! Are you in need of refreshment?"
"You're speaking my language, mate. I'll have your finest beer and some nachos."
"I'm afraid we have no such things as that here, friend. I do have some other nibblets if you so desire them."
"Well then, I'll just take the beer."
"I'll have some water."
"Very well. Find yourselves some chairs."
Jones and Cassandra found a small booth with, oddly enough, seats carved from a large block of stone. Jones ran his finger across the wooden table surface. "There's no way this isn't more than 200 years old. The varnish, the texture...where that old guy find something like this?"
"You know you sound like Stone now, right?"
Suddenly, the man appeared out of nowhere holding a tray in his hands. "Here are your drinks, friends."
"Thanks, mate. Mind if I ask where you got this table? And these, um, seats?"
"I assure you, they were here when I paid for this fine establishment. As such, I know not where they came from. But let's not talk of such matters. Would you like to participate in my special challenge?"
"What challenge?"
"If you can land a single blow on me, I'll give you as much beer as you want, free of charge."
"What's the catch?"
"Smart one, you are. Once you strike me, you must agree to let me strike you the next day, a year from now."
"Ezekiel, I don't think you should-"
"Relax, Cassandra. We'll be out of this town long before then."
Winding up his best arm, Jones gave the man a good right hook to the jaw. A sickening crack could be heard as his fist made contact. The man's head immediately turned to face him, as though a gust of wind had blown across his face. His jaw was already swelling up, but his next words couldn't be more clear: "A fine blow, friend. I'll return with more beer. Remember our deal. You must let me strike you the next day, a year from now."
As soon as he left, Jones, a dumbfounded look of horror on his face, sat down. "That bloke took it like a bloody bee sting! Cassandra, we need to leave now. Something not's right with this town."
She nodded her head in agreement. The two took care to slip out of the bar as quietly as possible, the door closing softly behind them.
