After completely emptying himself of all physical matter and most interest in ever eating again, and continuing to dry heave for a few minutes, Patrick finally managed to look up, only to find Seamus had somehow gotten himself another two full tankards of some dark frothy ale, but was also snacking on a bowl of chips that had certainly not been on the table previously.
"Are they….are they really dead? Did they really…I mean you said they would….no one could really be that sick though…" Patrick's hoarse voice trailed off after images of what Seamus had described kept popping back into his head and threatening to upset the delicate control he had managed to establish over his digestive system.
"You mean the humans back at the highway? O' yea, they're all dead, barring one of them having a literal guardian angel, but with the crew of delinquents you were with I would say that is a slim chance. Abyssals are more twisted than the Gordian knot, but they are professionals and they don’t leave witnesses, unless they wish to spread a message. Best hope is to wish the fiends were in a hurry and didn't take time to play with the manfolk." Seamus seemed unperturbed at the topic of brutal torture and vivisection as he continued to drain the ale from his tankard and snack on chips.
"Why do you keep mentioning those names, Abyssal, Fae, what are they, some type of street gang like the Bloods and Crips? Bikers like the Pagans? I'm not down to join whatever gang you are in, especially not if the fights routinely involve bombings or torture." Noticing his hands were still shaking, Patrick grabbed fistfuls of his legs through the dirty ripped fabric of his jeans and squeezed hard to try and steady himself.
Seamus shot Patrick a glare across the table that was part offended and part exasperation. "No, we are not some petty mortal gang. You are closer on the mark on that second guess, but just because they ain't what you think they are. You still don't know anything, do you? The Fae aren't a gang, you don't just join. Fae is what you ARE, our race, just like those poor fools who got flambeed along the side of the road were dirt boring humans for the most part, and the hellspawn that torched them is literally a being from the deepest pits of fire and brimstone that feeds on misery and souls."
A silence fell after Seamus' last words as Patrick attempted to figure out of the strange man was nuttier than squirrel shit or if world was actually a lot bigger, stranger, and more dangerous than he had always thought it to be. Which was a scary fucking thought given how life had already taught him to expect just about the worst out of any potential situation. But given the strange and terrifying events that had led him to his current circumstances, he was forced to consider the second option despite his unwillingness.
Before Patrick could fully process his conflicted feelings, a loud commotion arose from the other side of the room where several tables were clustered underneath a startling large flatscreen tv, standing out in its modernity despite the rustic and old fashioned décor. Patrick didn't have a good view of the screen from his seat, but most of the figures surrounding it were wearing jerseys of one Premier League team or another.
He had never been a big fan of professional sports, but one of the kids from his homeroom used to wear a different English football club jersey to school every day during their season. He had a really annoying habit of forcibly bringing them up in a conversation so he can brag about how many times his parents flew him over to England to watch the games live, and how much the different jerseys cost. Everyone knew the real reason he got flown over so many times was that after getting a new job in London, the kids father had divorced the kids mother, revealed he had been banging his secretary, and moved overseas. So as most shitty parents do, he decided to attempt to buy his son's love. The kid was obviously acting out, but that wasn't an excuse to be an obnoxious dick bragging about expensive novelties to a class mostly full of kids on food stamps. So Patrick started launching water balloons filled with tea at his head whenever he went outside for lunch, until the kid put two and two together and admitted defeat. Patrick was pretty proud of never getting caught for that one, despite the kid correctly realizing the cause for Patrick's smug attitude whenever it occurred, and even accusing him in front of a teacher. Mostly because of his careful planning to always secure a reasonable alibi, a skill he learned early in life, and the fact none of the teachers would have imagined he had long copied the janitor's master key and had unrestricted access to the rooftops.
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The diverse crowd of people, in every shape and shade imaginable, was fairly evenly split between pale blue jerseys and crimson jerseys. Those in pale blue, which he believed represented Manchester City were cheering and clapping each other on the shoulders, while those in crimson, which should be West Ham United, were mostly drinking, cursing, or pounding their hands on the tabletops. One of the figures in pale blue stood up, turned to a table dominated in men as short as Seamus but far stockier and more muscular, all wearing crimson jerseys, and called out in a mocking tone, "You piss poor in luck Hammers, aim as shite as your breath! Should just give up on the rest of the season, no chance you'll ever beat Man City."
One of the short but stout men in the crimson jerseys banged his hands on the table as he stood up, kicking his chair over behind him. "I'll show you a hammer's aim you arrogant pretentious git!" With that he made a guttural sound deep in his throat, flicked his right hand out, and begun to swing his whole arm forward, just as a massive weapon appeared in his hand. It had a long shaft, at the end of which laid the angular iron face of a warhammer on one side, and a wickedly sharp pick on the other. As the man's arm whipped forward, the head of the pick appeared already descending in an arc towards the skull of the Manchester City fan who had provoked him. Before the man could react, just as it looked like the sharp metal point would pierce through bone and splatter his brains all over the crowd, the angle of the pickhammer adjusted slightly, passing directly in front of the potential victim's face, and landing within the mug currently raised for another sip. It didn't shatter the large tankard, but shed most of its momentum, and in the end only poked a small hole in the bottom, just enough to start draining the beer it contained all over the shoes of the person who still hadn't had the time to react.
The West Ham fan drew his pickhammer back, and with another guttural shout coming deep from within his throat and a flick of his wrist, the implement disappeared from his grip. He turned, sticking his arm out with a flourish and bowed like a performer to the rest of the crowd gathered around the tv that had quieted their varied conversations at the sudden action. As he was just standing back up, a strangled yell blasted out behind him, as the Man City fan grabbed what looked like a slick, shiny cape of some kind off the back of a nearby chair, and leapt through the air at the person who had just ruined his beer and favorite pair of kicks. While in midair he swung the cape over his shoulders, and between one moment and the next had been replaced with a walrus.
The large, tusked creature crushed the short West Ham fan to the floor while emitting a deep growl from within its chest. This turn events provoked an even greater outcry from the bystanders than the events of the now forgotten match, as some shouted encouragements for the two figures to continue fighting, and others prepared to interfere more personally. The other crimson jersey clad figures that had been drinking with the pickhammer wielder jumped toward the walrus to aid their pinned compatriot, while the light blue jersey clad figures ran to meet them. Silhouettes danced in the light from the chandeliers as some human outlines shifted into the shapes of various beasts, blasts of twisting multicolored light were discharged, and sturdy metal tankards were lobbed through the air.
Patrick shrunk back into the depths of the booth, struck by almost equal measures of awe and terror. The magical and yet ludicrous events happening before his eyes firmly answered the question of whether Seamus was telling the truth, and yet didn't make accepting the new reality he had found himself thrust into any easier. Meanwhile Seamus' eyes lit up at the slowly escalating magical brawl. Throwing back the last of the ale in his tankard, Seamus wiped his lips with the back of his forearm, turned to Patrick, and with a wink, said "You have fun deciding if you're crazy or not, I'm gonna go join in the festivities." And what Patrick was beginning to believe wasn't just a short man with a foul mouth threw his bear coat onto the bench, stood up on the top of the table, and took a front flip directly into the middle of the brawl.