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Back in the day, 'afore the day, me and me mates didn't have much in the way of drinkin' money, as is we spent our pay on booze an' that didn't leave none left over for more casual drinkin'.

So we decide we're gonna comm-an-deer one of them epic-sized kegs of ol' Barkerstout from the loft of Barky's Brewpub.

We chopped the supports out with hatchets and that ol' boy just up an' ROLLED on out through the side of the thatch roof like a baby bird leavin' the nest, but some sort of big round beer bird, that could crush a man.

(That sounds serious.)

You know what they call it stout? 'Cuz once it were rolling down the hill it couldnae be bargained wit', couldnae be reasoned wit'. It felt no pity, no remorse, no fear.

It were like a beervalanche, which is a damn fine way to die.

So that keg explodered soon as it hit the orphanage at the bottom of the hill, and I dove inta the mud puddle wit' me mouth open, an', … Come to think of it, I don't 'member how this story ends. Wanna see the tattoo?

<Ol' Durty Pete drops his pants.>

(Tell me another story, Ol' Durty Pete!)

You see this here gun, boy?

<Ol' Durty Pete casually waves his weapon directly at your face.>

This here gun's seen action on every continent but for Northrend. It's saved me life more times than I can count: Seven. One time, "Big Mackie" MacDungal—not the wee MacDungal now, but his pappy—offered me his youngest daughter in barter for me gun.

Let me tell you somethin' about Edie: she and me gun had a lot in common. Wide-mouthed. Buck-toofed. Dangerous from the biz-ness end. Likin' to go oft half-cocked.

You heard about the time wee Edie bet Chuck Brandybeard 25 silver she could kick 'im in the head so hard he would weep snot?

(Weep SNOT!)

Ayup, word got around fast and soon the whole of Menethil gathered around to see it through, with bettin' and fruit vendors and the like, an' there were some consternation over the rules that had to be ironed out with a big rigamarole, 'til the mayor hisself agreed that weepin' blood tain't count fer nothin'.

So Chuck kneels down an' she gets up on a stool and REARS back with that big 'ol thick leg of hers and—but I'm digressin'. Point is, I shoulda taken the deal, 'cuz this gun's a bit dodgy.

(Tell me another story, Ol' Durty Pete!)

They didn't always call me Ol' Durty Pete.

Once, when I were young an' durty, I thought I'd impress a sweet buxom lass named Bellie with me chiselin' styles.

Ol' Bellie! She were somthin' else. Firm, that one. All big but for the middle, like they was meant to be.

So I found me a chunk of limestone white like her skin and I set about to chiselin' and carvin' and creatin' what you'd call a masterpiece, but I got me scale all wrong, see? I ended up with an enormous, what would you call it? Butt.

(A butt?)

You heard me, lad—a butt! Not a fitting gift for a lady. But I liked it. So I offered to donate it to me local drinkin' hole.

They called it Durty Pete's Bottom, and eventually named the pub after it, afore them orcs burned it to toast, and all that's left today is me big blackened bottom amidst a heap of rubble.

<Ol' Durty Pete sheds a single tear.>

(Tell me another story, Ol' Durty Pete!)

Back in the war—not that one, the udder one—with them orcs rode dragons? Me and Whistler set out to cross from Southshore to Menethil Harbor inna rowboat we'd built outta knotty pine while soused to our eyeballs on Cherry Grog.

An' we got about a third the way by my reckoning, which were mostly far judgin', by the fact that there were nothing all around us but the sea, when my feet got to start feelin' wet.

(That's no good.)

Now let me tell you somethin' about knotty pine, it's got knots, son.

And knots is just big holes in trees, which makes a stupid rowboat and I blamed Whistler but he had his own ideas about my choice of tar (I chose to forget it) so we decided to settle it by drinking.

When the grog ran out, that's when we had the knife fight. For sport.

Anyways, we never made it to Menethil, and I'm pretty sure one or both of us drowned.

And that's it!

Комментарий от mozamir

Whoever wrote them stories...Is a genius.

Комментарий от xenolithix

Apparently, Ol' Durty Pete loses his ability to speak coherent common while under stress.

Gol-Crawdad! Frappin' cratchet! Sonnova HEY what! 'magonna - git! Git! Horkin' nit, unfh, DABBIT!

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