The heroic exploits of Rikwick, the shining hope of the Shatterskull Marauders

“Might I interest you in this little wonder from the Gripgear Industries?”A goblin with a smile as wide as the sky stood behind them, a small can in his extended hand. “RogueX, the spray-on poison for the rogue on the go! Get a FREE sample for just 20 silver!”

Everything about this goblin struck Galehiel as suspicious. His armour was comically patch-work, seemingly having been assembled from whatever scraps had happened to be lying around. His every visible possession had been strapped -- or, in some cases, bolted -- upon his person. Even against the background of the shady Orgrimmar bar they stood in, the creature seemed to positively radiate greed and betrayal. No good could come from associating with it in any manner.

Having thus assessed the situation, Galehiel opened his mouth to dismiss the goblin -- only to realize Fenn had already accepted the bottle and was now receiving instructions on the use of the aerosol spray.

“So I just point it like this and push the button?”

“That's right! Easy as pie! Just make sure you're pointing it the right way. We subcontracted the assembly to murlocs, so it's a bit off-standard.”

Galehiel, feeling that familiar tinge of malaise over the future of Quel'Thalas, watched silently as Fenn carefully aimed the nozzle at his dagger and pushed the button. A stream of green mist shot up directly into his eyes, causing the elf to collapse screaming onto the floor.

“Yea that's the wrong way. No refunds!”

Galehiel took a step to the side, so as not to have the dust raised by his compatriot's writhing land on his robe. “Murlocs seem like a rather peculiar choice for labour, mr...?”

“MY EYES! I CAN'T SEE!”

“Rikwick Gripgear, the CEO of Gripgear Industries, the fastest growing Bilgewater subsidiary operating out of the northern portion of the eastern part of the central Bilgewater Harbor, at your service!” Rikwick pushed Fenn over with his boot, so that his face would fall onto the floor, muffling his screams. “And yea, we're not using murlocs anymore. Things went on a strike, demanding less slashing, a 168-hour work week, less industrial waste in the pay-fish, the usual stuff. Got to be too much of a hassle.”

“168-hour…” Galehiel pauses to make sure he had calculated correctly. “They wanted more hours?”

“Nah, less.”

“OH GODS THE PAIN!”

“168 hours is a full week, to the hour. How could they possibly have been working more than that before?”

“We had their families pitch in a few hours, too.”

“COULD I GET SOME HEALING OVER HERE BEFORE MY FACE MELTS OFF?!”

Galehiel waved his hand in Fenn's general direction, invoking a minor healing spell. The elf's screams began to die down.

“So then what happened?” At this point, Galehiel was continuing the conversation more out of politeness than interest.

“Well, as luck would have it, the whole plant mysteriously burned to the ground with all the workers in it. We collected a hefty insurance and sold the remains of the workers to Orgrimmar. Around 80% of the ‘salmon’ in Horde infantry rations is actually murloc.”

Behind Galehiel a group of tauren abruptly halted their dining, forks frozen mid-air.

“You don't want to know what the ‘pork's’ actually made of,” Rikwick continues, nodding toward an orc at the bar stand. The tauren push their plates aside with nauseous grunts, excusing themselves to be violently sick.

“Okay, so, to make absolutely sure, this is the way I need to point this, right?” Fenn hovered before Rikwick, his eyes red and tears still streaming down his face, holding the RogueX can in position above his dagger. Galehiel felt a migraine coming on.

“Yeah, just make the little hole is pointed at the blade.”

Fenn pointed the nozzle at his dagger, but after a moment's hesitation decided to set the blade on the table vacated by the tauren. Shielding his face with his free hand, he aimed with utmost concentration, bringing the nozzle right next to the dagger. Satisfied he had taken every precaution, he pushed the button. A stream of green mist again came shooting out of the can, arching past Fenn's hand and landing on his face.

“WHY?! HOW?!”

Galehiel glanced at Rikwick inquisitively as he casually cast another minor healing spell, feeling his companion had for once raised a good point.

“The shaman we hired to look into it says all the cans are haunted by vengeful spirits or something. Go figure. Anyways, that's the reason we're letting this stellar product go at such low, low prices.” Rikwick produced another can of RogueX from his pack and offered it to Galehiel, who raised his hand to decline.

“Ain't gonna stick around if there's no business to be had.” Rikwick stuck the bottle back into his pack, causing a faint “Oomph!” to emanate from within. “Oh, and I'll be expecting a payment on that can. Already 22 gold by my reckoning.”

“I thought it was 20 silver.”

“If he had paid before using it, yeah. Now it's accumulating an interest, 476% every 53.3 seconds.”

“I'm fairly certain there is a law against that.”

“The terms of payment are printed on the can. Not my fault if he couldn't be arsed to read them beforehand.”

“There's… there's nothing like that here… just a list of ingredients, and-- gods, what could you possibly need the flesh of unborn squirrels for…?” Fenn interjected from the floor, struggling to make out the text on the side of the can through the tears.

“Look closer; it's printed inside the other print. Trickier than you'd think, actually. We had to cut a deal with something called Gurak the Devourer of Nether to make that happen. Details are a trade secret.”

Rikwick took his leave, throwing Fenn a heart-felt “Remember to pay or 'Ill have someone cut you!” on his way out. Galehiel ordered a glass of milk and sat down to enjoy it, lost in thought, while Fenn tortuously crawled toward the table.


((Yeah, I kind of hate dialogue tags. Don't think this was too hard to follow in the absence thereof, tho. Oh, and full disclosure: I totally stole one of those jokes from Dilbert.))