>>5360831"Listen here. I will-- and I mean, I WILL NOT--allow you guys to spread any more FUD in my establishment. I cannot tell you the sheer amount of times a barfight started over those damned mutants, just because people thought they were real or not." The man's voice is a fierce whisper, but he doesn't even take pause in his rant, far-too-determined to make a point. "As far as everyone here knows, mutants are a psy-op FutureLabs and the city government are using to increase tourist revenue-- even the guys in costumes all got some sort of holograms or CGI or some shit like that..."
It's hard to tell whether or not the barkeep actually believes the words he's spewing, and even Bernard has stopped eating to stare, gobsmacked at the formerly-friendly barkeep.
So mesmerized by his rant in a terrible-yet-disgusted sort of way, you hardly noticed that the bartender had taken something that Bernard had left on the counter by mistake.
'Beep-beep--' An angry sounding beep rings from the machine the barkeep had his hand next to-- an ID-card scanner to be more precise. In the barkeep's hand is the fake ID Bernard had showed off to you earlier.
"Giovanni Flavo." The bartender reads out, spitting the name like a bad taste. "That wasn't what your girlfriend called you."
"That's cause my girlfriend's got a weird taste in pet names..." Bernard tries for an excuse. "Isn't that right, honey?" With an arm over your shoulder, he pulls you close so as to emphasize his point, but your act is all-for-naught.
"Card's a fake." The barkeep utters the damning words, and, in that exact moment, you feel your stomach try to rocket its way out of your body.
Thinking quickly, Bernard grabs hold of your wrist and one of the taco gyros at the same time before leaping off of the seat in a sprint. His height works in his favor, allowing him ample distance before anyone can think to stop you, and the two of you zoom straight out the door.
As soon as you're hit with the humid night air, you break into a sprint with the blonde, keeping pace until the two of you reach the treeline. Whoever might've pursued you will have little luck finding you, as Bernard teleports you far, far away from the scene of the crime.
You can't even feel bad for dining and dashing as Bernard digs into the solitary taco gyro he took along, the two of you having taken refuge in another small copse of pine trees. It'll have to do for now, but you resolve to never step foot in The Clumsies again.
>(2/3) 