The Bar at the End of the Universe

Somewhere a hundred million and more years ago before Ray's own time, there is a cave. It's a good-sized cave. It normally only has one opening. Today, as has happened a few times in the past, it has two: one in the mundane world, and one that opens onto Milliways. For once, that second opening doesn't come into the Bar proper, but vents into the open space behind the Bar.

Which is good, because Ray and Scribble the raptor are hauling an improvised, bloody, dripping mess of a travois between them. Ray's been kinda busy, and it takes a lot of effort to haul a head that's fifty-six inches long from one end to the other. Once Ray realizes where they are, he turns to Scribble with an exhausted look of gratitude. "Nice work," he says, and reaches up to pat the raptor on the neck again. "Thank you, kiddo. You wanna play or anything, or do you just want to get back to your mom?"

As soon as he's done with that, Ray's going to stick his head into the Bar proper and call out at the top of his lungs, "IS THERE A TAXIDERMIST IN THE HOUSE?"

Just his head, you understand. He's mostly covered in mud and partly dried dinosaur poo, and there's acrocanthasaurus blood and worse all over his hands and arms.

Rho had a few words with the Bar earlier today, and as a result spent much of the midday upstairs, having received a pair of bulky objects and some slimmer, smaller ones. Really, he's a quiet lad when he wants to be.

And now he's outside with a paintball gun and a skeet shooting rig. Light blue splatter everywhere, man.