"Guess what -- I've come upon something incriminating."

"Hold on, how do you even know he was in special forces?"

"Cause one night he walked straight up to the mic and said: 'I'm Oranjese goddamn Special Forces and I'm gonna fuck you all'."

"Really?"

"Yeah -- really. Had a gin and tonic up there, sang some Oranjese paratrooper song, and said he's gonna fuck everyone."

"We couldn't believe it, either. But he fucking did. Right there," he points at the stage, "like some kind of animal."

Sire, the tale is true.

This is a serious violation of the karaoke code.

"Really?"

"Cool."

"What kind of mercenary?"

"No more questions."

"About fuckin' time."

"How does the bullet in his head factor into this?"

"Huh?!" A sip of beer makes the surprise go down easier.

"There was a bullet in the dead man's brain," the lieutenant checks his notes. "Why was it there, if you hanged him?"

"How the fuck do I know? Anyone could have shot him. Target practice maybe?" Another sip. He's tight-lipped suddenly.

Interesting, sire. It's as if he's lying -- to protect someone. He's not very good at it.

"This line of questioning is over," the woman steps in before you can answer. "You got the cause of death already. Hanging. If there's any post-mortem trauma, it's your problem. This will not turn into a cross-examination."

This was a good move. Also, notice how Titus doesn't like her much. Especially when she's calling the shots.

"Why don't I just arrest you?" (Step closer to Titus.)

"Yeah, lawman." He takes a step closer as well, fixing his ball cap. "Why don't you?"

It's almost an anthropological sight: watching him try to assert dominance over you.

Weren't you warned to not go down this path?! And yet you still go and do it...

Just because you can doesn't mean you have to say everything that comes to mind. Back out before the situation escalates.

"Not in the arresting mood?" His mean little eyes come alive with hatred.

A fearful readiness, like an electrical charge, raises hairs in the room.

By your side, the lieutenant keeps his hand away from his holster. You hear the nylon of his coat hiss as he steps closer.

Easy. Walk back from the provocation. They're armed, and they outnumber us. The lieutenant tries to establish eye contact with you.

While the little rat-faced man reaches into his sleeve... there's a knife in there! Some of the others reach for their belts, their eyes alight.

"Easy now. Let's just talk." (Back off.)

"Wise move." He leans back against the table. "You made the right choice there. Now make another one and get the fuck out of our booth. We're not gonna do this again."

He's grateful. Just a little, somewhere down there. You didn't force him to get ugly.

Wait, why are they reaching for their belts?

Guns are stocked between the belts -- three, maybe four firearms. Although Fat Angus might be just pulling up his pants, not sure...

No such luck. Even he has a gun.

From the back of the room -- a little pop. You hear the brass button opening on Alain's belt holster.

This is where the first shot will come from.

"You confessed to murder. I'm taking you in." (Step even closer.)

"Look, coppers." Titus opens up his vest, revealing a holstered firearm. "I know you think you're doing your job here, but there are seven of us and two of you."

That's an Ister 50. A Zsiemsk-made monstrosity. It'll blow your head clean off.

All mighty god! Even Dick Mullen only has a .45!

He doesn't actually want to hurt you. There's an easy way out of this -- a self-deprecating joke.

"Fine, I only have one pair of handcuffs anyway." (Back off.)

"Good one." The big man nods, but he's not laughing. "You need to go and cool off right now, copper. Can't joke your way out of the next one."

Beneath everything he's just a little bit grateful you didn't force him to get ugly.

"That won't be necessary. We'll be on our way for now. Let everybody cool off a bit." He pulls you along.

He's just glad you're both safe for now.

"You're under arrest." (Grab his wrist.)

The last thing you hear is a little murmur. Not a blast, not an echo. No one screams. It's impossible to say where it comes from...

The last thing you hear is a little murmur. Not a blast, not an echo. No one screams. It's impossible to say where it comes from...

"An Ister 50. You could blow Dick Mullen away with that." (Back off.)

"Am I gonna have to?" He tilts his head like a hawk, eyes narrowing to a mere shadow beneath his ball cap.

"That won't be necessary. Let's just all cool off." He pulls you along and steps out of the booth.

"The little guy was right. I'm not in the arresting mood." (Back off.)

"The little guy? You're the little guy now," he grins, the gap in his teeth like a rotting hole.

"So, little guy," the frontman nods, still not smiling. "You had some questions?"

Beneath everything he's grateful, just a bit. You don't force him to get ugly.

"Yeah, little questions." A snicker and a sneer from the corner.

The bore's the size of your eye. I can almost see the stars.

"Look, cop..." Titus opens up his vest, revealing a holstered firearm. "I know you think you're doing your job here, but there are seven of us and just one of you."