Going Postal

blah blah, then Second Chair—that’s you , Bob—you step smartly between their Number Five man and a Bottler, swing the chair back over your head, like this—sorry, Pointy—and then swing it right back onto Number Five, bang, crash, and there’s a cushy six points in your pocket. If they’re playing a dwarf at Number Five, then a chair won’t even slow him down, but don’t fret, hang on to the bits that stay in your hand, pause one moment as he comes at you, and then belt him across both ears. They hate that, as Stronginthearm here will tell you. Another three points. It’s probably going to be freestyle after that but I want all of you, including Mucky Mick and Crispo, to try for a Double Andrew when it gets down to the fist-fighting again. Remember? You back into each other, turn around to give the other guy a thumping, cue moment of humorous recognition, then link left arms, swing round and see to the other fellow’s attacker, foot or fist, it’s your choice. Fifteen points right there if you get it to flow just right. Oh, and remember we’ll have an Igor standing by, so if your arm gets taken off do pick it up and hit the other bugger with it, it gets a laugh and twenty points. On that subject, do remember what I said about getting everything tattooed with your name, all right? Igors do their best, but you’ll be on your feet much quicker if you make life easier for him and, what’s more, it’s your feet you’ll be on. Okay, positions, everyone, let’s run through it again…”
    Moist sidled past the group and scanned the huge room. The important thing was not to slow down. Slowing down attracted people.
    He saw a thin plume of blue smoke rise above the crowd, and forced his way through.
    Miss Dearheart was sitting alone at a very small table with a very small drink in front of her. She couldn’t have been there long; the only other stool was unoccupied.
    “Do you come in here often?” said Moist, slipping onto it quickly.
    Miss Dearheart raised her eyebrows at him.
    “Yes. Why not?”
    “Well, I…I imagine it’s not very safe for a woman on her own.”
    “What, with all these big strong men here to protect me? Why don’t you go and get your drink?”
    Moist got to the bar eventually, by dropping a handful of small change on the floor. That usually cleared the crush a little.
    When he returned, his seat was occupied by a Currently Friendly Drunk. Moist recognized the type, and the operative word was “currently.” Miss Dearheart was leaning back to avoid his attentions and, more probably, his breath.
    Moist heard the familiar cry of the generously sloshed.
    “What…right? What I’m saying is, right, what I’m saying, narhmean, why won’t you, right, gimme a kiss, right? All I’m saying is—”
    Oh gods, I’m going to have to do something , Moist thought. He’s big and he’s got a sword like a butcher’s cleaver and the moment I say anything he’s going to go right into stage four, Violent Undirected Madman, and they can be surprisingly accurate before they fall over.
    He put down his drink.
    Miss Dearheart gave him a very brief look, and shook her head. There was movement under the table, a small, fleshy kind of noise, and the drunk suddenly bent forward, color draining from his face. Probably only the man and Moist heard Miss Dearheart purr: “What is sticking in your foot is a Mitzy ‘Pretty Lucretia’ four-inch heel, the most dangerous footwear in the world. Considered as pounds per square inch, it’s like being trodden by a very pointy elephant. Now, I know what you’re thinking: you’re thinking, ‘Could she press it all the way through to the floor?’ And, you know, I’m not sure about that myself. The sole of your boot might give me a bit of trouble, but nothing else will. But that’s not the worrying part. The worrying part is that I was forced practically at knifepoint to take ballet lessons as a child, which means I can kick like a mule; you are sitting in front of me; and I have another shoe . Good, I can see you have worked that out. I’m going to withdraw the heel now.”
    There was a small pop from under the table. With great care, the man stood up, turned, and lurched unsteadily away, without so much as a backward glance.
    “Can I bother you?” said Moist. Miss Dearheart nodded, and he sat down, with his legs crossed.
    “He was only a drunk,” Moist ventured.
    “Yes, men say that sort of thing,” said Miss Dearheart. “Anyway, tell me