The one thing Max could deal with about England was the beer. Sure, it was warm, but it had good flavor. He liked the pubs well enough too. Dark wood and dart boards and shit. Hell, if he kept his mouth shut the folks were even nice enough. It was when he opened his fat yap and came off like the know-it-all redneck he was that he got in trouble. Which was about every day. Tonight he was all about the low profile. He'd gone for the tweedy cap instead of the gimme or the cowboy hat, and had even left the ostrich boots at home. He just wanted a nice quiet drink, to be left alone for a bit, because God only knew he wasn't getting that at the stone monstrosity he called home these days. Damn that Morrie anyway for kicking off and leaving him a man about town in a town he knew nothing about. Max settled in a corner seat and pulled his cap low, just grooving on the relative silence, even in a crowded, smoky pub. No one was talking near him for a change, and that? He liked. There was a ruckus at the door, a quartet of big, burly guys, pushing people around and hollering, obviously looking for someone. Funny, how assholes were universal. Something brightly colored and tinkling -- tinkling? -- slipped beside him, ducked down in the shadows of the corner. Either he was about to be assaulted by a midget clown or somebody quick and skinny had just slid right in between his legs and the wall. Now, he was usually one to get a bit upset about someone invading his space, but he had a feeling he knew who the jerks at the door were looking for, so he just leaned a bit to cover, sipping his beer again, casual-like. The four spread through the pub, looking, growling. The presence behind him stayed quiet, pretty quiet. Well, barring the low-...