(no subject)

[douchess]

WHO: Sterling Archer and Bullseye
WHERE: A bar.
WHEN: Night of June 7th.
WARNINGS: Violence, shenanigans.
SUMMARY: Bar fight.
FORMAT: Quick.

[Picture it:

An old-style bar with wooden floors and rough countertops. Hanging lamps with olive green light shades. Pretzels. Ash trays in the shape of bears. And the greatest secret agent in the whole world.

(Or one of the worlds, anyway.)

Archer knows how to mix the drinks. He knows how to wipe up the counters. He knows how to flirt with women and then take them to back room to oh ugh yeah oh oh and he knows how to annihilate cockroaches by convincing that idiot Danny that he's actually an undercover health inspector masquerading as an import. Jeez. Wow. Look at all the good he can do.

Sterling Archer is -- in his humble opinion -- an excellent bartender.]

Comments

[douchess]

I totally did.

[He says this with all the pride in the world, his chest puffed out, his eyes practically sparkling.]

I mean, not the whole thing, obviously. That would be, you know. Ick.

Right?

[bullseye]

[Not even blinking.]

You sold me your sweat.

[douchess]

Correction: I sold you vodka that I created through hard work and several tireless hours on the treadmill while also wearing an incredibly fashionable turtleneck.

But like I said, only some of that vodka is mine because otherwise: ick.

[bullseye]

[His lips press together in a thin line as Archer speaks. Barely has the word "ick" left his mouth than Bullseye's fist comes swinging at Archer.]

[douchess]

[And because "ick" has barely left his mouth, Archer barely has time to respond -- and so he doesn't. He takes the punch, his head kicking back, blood filling his sinuses.]

GAAAAH!

[Eloquent. He grips his face.]

What the shit?!

[His self pity lasts, oh, another millisecond before he aims an elbow at Bullseye's face.]