The man did his best to reach the very bottom his pint glass with his tongue though as tongues are generally shorter, at least the portion of said muscle that protrudes, than the depth of the average pint glass, he failed quite spectacularly.
He glanced with pleading eyes towards the bartender but the big Spaniard - 'big,' in this case, referring to the percentage of the man's body that was actually fat, rather than the amount of rippling muscles that might otherwise have adorned his physique - was in no mood for shenanigans of any sort and besides, he was eating a packet of oyster and vinegar flavoured crisps. Ergo, he was far too busy to serve more drinks, especially as his one and only customer was a C cup and vagina short of being even remotely fuckable.
That's right; even fat dudes have standards.
The packet of oyster and vinegar flavoured crisps finished, which included the inside of the foil packet having been licked clean of anything resembling flavour, the Spaniard crossed his arms over his enormous chest and tapped his right foot impatiently, whilst simultaneously shooting the man sitting on the other side of the bar the very best Resting Dick Face possible, without vastly expensive and, it has to be said, incredibly unusual, cosmetic surgery at any rate.
The man, however, in his somewhat inebriated state, did not get the message and slurred several incoherent words and phrases. But the Spaniard did not budge, in fact if it was at all possible his Resting Dick Face grew even more pronounced.
"Gorrapissshhhhhh..." the man slurred once again and made moves to raise his buttocks from the barstool although much like his attempts to lick the bottom of his pint glass moments earlier, getting to his feet ended in monumental failure and rather than making it to the gents' he pissed himself right there, soaking his trousers and the carpet in the process.
The Spaniard muttered something in Spanish, because he was Spanish, and set about helping the drunkard to his feet. His surprise was palpable, however when the man rose of his own accord until he was floating a good three feet in the air, a urine-soaked patch of shag beneath him with the most sober of expressions upon his face.
Odder still his eyes were completely white, the iris, pupil and the rest of the bits that made up the standard ocular organ having apparently disappeared and he looked at the Spaniard with those wide, white eyes, and grinned.
For the first time he could recall, the Spaniard wished there were more people in the bar, that fewer guests at the English country four-star had gone to bed, that more were capable enough of remaining awake after supper.
As has already been inferred the Spaniard was a large man and as such he did not scare easily, but when the man's eyes exploded thus spraying the Malaga native with a very messy, smelly, large amount of bodily fluids and through his own blurred vision, thanks to the aforementioned bodily fluids, he saw what looked very much like an Oak-sized root ball emerging from each of the man's eye sockets, to say he was a tad perturbed would've been an understatement of cuntish proportions.
The Spaniard's fight or flight kicked in and his fists balled of their own volition. He drew his arm back, preparing to punch the man in what remained of his face when the door to his right, the one that opened up onto a corridor that would, eventually, lead one to the exit/foyer/bedrooms/lavatory (delete as appropriate), swung heavily open and there stood, in an almost comic book fashion with her near-bare legs - in fact were it not for the rather muddy sole of her boot pointing directly towards him and the fact he could just about make out the slightly moist crotch of a pair of what he supposed were shorts, the Spaniard could, indeed, have been forgiven for believing the female was naked from the waist down - at a perfect right angle, a moderately attractive female.
To be fair as she swung her leg around, keeping it at a right angle until such a point as she could direct it towards the floor with the poise and grace of a comically top-heavy ballet dancer, it was pretty clear to the Spaniard she had a cracking set of pins which, for a leg man such as he, was somewhat of a bonus.
Without saying a word she strode into the room, a flick of her eyes serving as all the reconnaissance she apparently required and from somewhere about her person, the Spaniard was not entirely sure where as it was not as though she actually had anywhere to hide anything, she produced what is colloquially known as a Big Fucking Gun.
With a nod in the Spaniard's direction, a nod the Spaniard took to mean something along the lines of, "Dude, get the fuck out of the way else I'm gonna' annihilate you along with this fucking weirdo and to be fair I dig fat dudes, they always put more effort in so if you're still alive in a few seconds I'm definitely gonna' ride you 'til you're spurting dust," and as such, took a couple of steps backwards, thus putting a low table and three-seater sofa between himself and the individual who had, not too long ago, been his sole customer, she proceeded to fire the aforementioned Big Fucking Gun which resulted in several occurrences, including but by no means limited to the following: there was a wall missing, the Spaniard was hard Gibraltar, every bottle of gin on the back bar exploded and apart from a pair of green socks, there was no sign of the former customer.
The Spaniard looked towards the moderately attractive, comically top-heavy female, and shrugged as smoked billowed from the barrel of the Big Fucking Gun.
"Y'all right?" she asked, to which he nodded in answer.
"Good," she replied, swinging the Big Fucking Gun over her shoulder and thus, out of sight. "Name's Honey, B-T-Dubs and you, my fat sexy friend, are now part of a pretty exclusive club; you're one of the few who knows one pretty fucking major thing."
"Yes?" the Spaniard replied, and though that was not the extent of his mastery of the English language it was all the moderately attractive, comically top-heavy female whose name, apparently, was Honey, was getting by way of a response at that particular moment in time.
"You know what that is?" she asked, cricking her neck as she approached the Spaniard and without missing a beat, slipped her hand inside his pants.
"Yes," he replied.
"No not that," she chuckled. "I know what that is. I'm on about that pretty fucking major thing I mentioned."
"Yes," he said once again. "Yes, I know... They are here."
