Noon.
The upscale, cool-hued fluorite color lamps, a totally uncool trash band.
The audience at the bar was even less refined.
"What a terrifying... pair of thick-shell crabs."
Archer was chugging his drink.
He and Morison were inside a dance club.
Morison was an interesting fellow and didn't despise Archer; on the contrary, he found him quite amusing.
Just like he didn't use a long sword, Archer became a social challenge, escalating the difficulty to hell level, annoying people to the point of being loathed by man and dog alike, creating trouble just for the fun of it, which provided Morison an opportunity to practice his skills.
Morison was fastidious to the extreme, reckoning that killing people for no reason was like swinging a golf club—a sign of psychopathy.
This duo had become a horror story well known in Heaven Port, a cautionary tale to steer clear of the disfigured face accompanied by a drunkard, by all means necessary.
