This One Is Long and There's a Wizard In It

A man walked into a bar.

It was an extremely ordinary bar. The kind of bar that certain ordinary people come to specifically because it is ordinary. No one was ever loud, no one was ever drunk, no one ever got into fights, and, most importantly, no one ever did anything strange. Ordinary people came in, had an ordinary beverage, and left again to continue having an ordinary day. But the man who walked in on the day of the fire was not what the bar's regulars, or almost anyone else, would consider ordinary.

He was nearly a head taller than the tallest man they had ever seen. Instead of slacks and collared shirt, like any ordinary man would wear, he was draped in a thick robe that reached all the way to his toes and had uncountable layers and folds in which clinked innumerable trinkets and tools. His head was also strange. His face bore a stately and refined expression, but his eyes opened wide and wild. His hair had been wound into a braid longer than the brashest woman of the town would dare to grow her's. He smelled of stone and ash.

Every eye seated at a table or at the bar followed the bizarre stranger as he marched to where the bartender washed a glass. Every ear listened as his spoke in a raspy but authoritative voice.

"Is this the tavern in which the Seven Fists of the Dire Dragon's Bane are meeting?"

"We don't want no trouble here sir." The bartender blurted, wide-eyed, still wiping the same glass even though it was clean. The rest of the room nodded, making low "mmhmm" sounds to show their support.

The stranger raised an eyebrow. "Your desires are no concern of mine, dishwasher. Answer my question."

The bartender, who in his disquiet had not heard the large man's request, stammered, "Your question sir?"

"My question. Answer it. Quickly. I cannot be late."

"I might not have heard proper what you was—"

"The Seven Fists of the Dire Dragon's Bane. Is this where they are meeting?"

"Well I can't say as I would know if there was—that is to say—I can't say I've heard of any six punches of... of—"

"—seven. Seven fists of the—Look here, cup wiper." The man put his hands on the bar and leaned forward. "I do not wish to be in the presence of you or your wide-eyed ilk for any significant length of time." He motioned to the customers, none of which had taken a sip of their drinks since he entered. "So if you could point me in the direction of your private meeting rooms, I would become so agreeable that I might not cause you significant bodily harm."

The bartender, who, unlike most bartenders, had never been threatened or even mildly reprimanded, responded in the most authoritative voice he could muster, "I don't know about any ilk, mister, but we don't want to be in your presence neither. So you can just take your trouble-making someplace where its wanted."

The troublemaker's eyes narrowed. "Are you attempting to reprimand me, tavern rat?"

"I—I ain't no rat. And—and this ain't no tavern."

"No." The stranger turned and took a few slow, deliberate steps towards the exit. "I suppose not." He stopped. "This is actually a coop." He turned again to face the bar again. "And you know what that makes you, dish wiper?" He grinned wider than anyone watching thought humanly possible. "A chicken! A chicken for the roasting!"

At that, he stretched out his hand towards the bartender. From it issued a white-hot ball of flame that screamed as it hurled towards its target. However, the bartender had used the last of his courage to declare that he was not a rat, and so he had already curled up in a ball behind the bar. Thus, the fireball smashed instead into the shelves behind that bar, upon which sat rows and rows of liqueur. They exploded.

Glass and burning liqueur were thrown throughout the bar. Several slower customers found themselves set alight and immediately began running in no particular direction and screaming. The quicker customers, who were on hands and knees under the tables, yelled advice to the screaming men, or yelled to each other that they should crawl to safety before this situation got any more un-ordinary.

A sound started low, but soon overtook the din. It was like a scream, only deeper, and continuously rising in pitch. As it rose, louder and louder, higher and higher, until all the yelling in the room ceased as the customers searched for the source. The burning men had all ripped off their shirts or found water to put out their flames by this point.

The sound continued to rise. It was the stranger who was screaming, still standing where he had been before. He was bent forward with his hands covering his face. Blood was dripping from between his fingers. His scream continued to rise until it reached an inhuman pitch and volume.

The man removed his hands from his face. His mouth hung open wide, issuing the scream. His face contorted with hatred. His left eye burned with malice. His right eye had a chunk of liqueur bottle wedged into it. Blood poured from this wound and down his face.

Without taking a breath, his scream transformed into words: "CHICKENS FOR THE ROASTING!"

He stretched out his hands and pillars of flame issued forth and consumed the room. He turned in every direction, screaming of chickens and of roasting over the din of the men crying of fire and of madness. In moments, he had transformed the bar into a pit of hell, with fire consuming every flammable surface and blackening everything else.

The customers scurried away through windows and doors, their clothing licked by the flames. They stopped once they were a good distance away to turn and watch the ceiling of their ordinary bar dissolve in the intense fire. The bizarre man who had walked into the bar was not observed walking out of it. He seemed to have evaporated in the course of his own madness.

Months later, the bar was open again. But it was not the same bar.

The walls were the same walls, since they were made of stone and had only been blackened. The roof and the tables were new. The clientele were very different, and very numerous. "The Burnt Bar" they called it. You could still smell the flames that the mad mage had created, and this drew a large crop of new customers who were intrigued by the unique and bizarre. They all wanted to smell the flames, gossip about the event, and hear the story from the scarred, but famous and wealthy, bartender. He had seen it all with his own eyes. He exaggerated some details, especially his own courage, but always began the tale accurately:

"A man walked into a bar..."