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“He’s a charmer.” Burnie observed from the ground floor, sitting beside one of the Dwarven Fortress’s many exits. “Who eats a bucket of Im a grillmaster If BBQ were easy it would be called your mom shirt chicken at the theatre?” He groused quietly, leaning back in his chair. Get the stick out of your arse, Fat Man. You’re just here for a show, right?” Patu coached in his own way, polishing off another mug of beer. He had clearly calmed down after realising there was an endless stream of alcohol, though inside he squealed with juvenile glee. Burnie sent him a variety of images that Google 3.0’s profanity filter automatically shielded. The Maori laughed in response. “Atta boy. Now, eyes on. Show’s about to start.” Patu wormed deeper into his chair, content with his lot in life.