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wilford warfstache

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Wilford bursts through the door in a big hurry, holding a video tape in one hand and his .44 Magnum in the other. It takes about two seconds for him to catch Buster's attention, and then there's a flurry of excitement as Wilford runs up the stairs, with Buster following after him, barking and jumping all the way.

After a little while, they both come back downstairs and stop off at the bar. Wilford puts his gun down on the surface and gets a damp towel to try to clean some of the mud and blood off of his face. Only once his face is as clean as it's going to get does he think that maybe he should make sure that none of the blood on him is actually his.

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"You still chasing that thing?" Bernard asks.

Wilford looks up from inspecting some scrapes on his hands. There are tiny bits of dirt and pebbles stuck in his skin. That's going to be fun to clean out.

"Wasn't after the rake," he says, distracted and a bit breathless.

"What?" Bernard asks.

"That's what you were asking about, wasn't it?" Wilford asks, pointing vaguely toward the door.

He looks like he took a spill down the side of a mountain, and then maybe fell in a bog at the bottom. Everything he's wearing is trashed, and he hasn't fared much better. But so far, he doesn't seem to actually be injured any farther than some cuts and scrapes and maybe the beginnings of a bruise along his jaw.

On the floor, Buster is still waiting impatiently for attention.

"The eyeball thing. You know, the one you were all shooty at last time?"

Wilford waves his hand dismissively. "Some moron took it to his world."

Good riddance to both of them.

"I thought you meant the thing out there."

Which he wasn't really concerned about, right up until it came for him instead of the bait.

"Why, what's out there?" Bernard asks.

"Something called a rake. You got those where you're from?"

He finally gives in and gets an egg from the bar to toss down to his dog. It serves as a decent enough distraction for a few minutes.

"You mean someone is running around with a stick with metal prongs on the end that people use to gather leaves?"

"I mean eight feet tall. Rail thin. Likes to watch you when you sleep so it can eviscerate you the second you open your eyes and look at it."

Why would anybody care about someone running around with a gardening tool?

"Have you ever considered living somewhere else?" Bernard asks.

Well, now it's Wilford's turn to be confused. "The hell would I do something like that for?"

Everywhere else seems so damn boring.

"Oh I don't know, so you don't get eviscerated?" Bernard suggests.

Wilford picks up his gun to check how many bullets he still has left. And then the gun disappears to his inventory. "Wouldn't be the first time."

"You got better from being eviscerated?"

Oh yay. This conversation again. Wilford's favourite. :|

"Yeah, don't you?"

Of course Bernard doesn't. Nobody does around here.

"I assume not, though it hasn't happened yet." Bernard says. "I guess I could test it on one of the customers."

Wilford does have an enormous gun in his hand. He shrugs and gives it a little glance.

"Probably not worth the hassle if it doesn't work." Bernard says, eying the gun.

"How long does a broken bone take to heal where you are?"

Wilford shrugs again and puts the gun back on the top of the bar. He was willing to give it a try if Bernard was.

"Depends on the break, I imagine. Took me a good couple of months to really get back on my feet after I got shot a few years ago."

Bernard knows it. But even he knows he needs a minimal number of customers to stay supplied with wine. Word might get round.

"So it's not that you heal quicker in your world then."

"How the hell would I know that?"

He has no frame of reference for what anybody does on other worlds. Just that most people are ridiculously squishy and bruise easily.

"I can flog you some unwanted medical books if you want." Bernard says.

"I wouldn't know what to do with them."

Also, he doesn't really care enough to bother with that kind of thing. He has no use for the information anyway.

"It's not like I'm a doctor or anything."

"Doctors don't buy those sort of medical books." Bernard says. "They're for hypochondriacs and weirdos."