The Right to Bear Arrrrms

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The Right to Bear Arrrrms
The Right to Bear Arrrrms

You take a seat at one of the barrrstools, after taking careful stool samples to get the most comfortable one (sorry). Paddy, the Barrrtender, takes a break from wiping the barrr with a filthy rag (you can't decide whether he's trying to clean the bar with the rag, or the rag with the bar) and eyes you suspiciously. "What'll ye have?" he asks.

"Just a soda for me, thanks," you say, "I don't drink alcohol."

"Don't drink alcohol? Why the devil not?" Paddy says, scowling.

"Well, you see," you say, feeling self-righteousness rise within you, "I've never understood why people feel the need to alter their perception of reality to have a good time. I don't want to artificially lower my inhibitions, and I prefer to stay in control of my emotions and actions. It's a far superior way to live one's life. Plus, the potential harmful effects of alcohol are well-docu..."

"Well," Paddy says, cutting you off, "I can respect that. It just means that you're a wussy-baby-wimp who can't handle anything stronger than milk. Hey, let me see if I have some milk for the baby. I'll even put a nipple on the bottle."

"I assure you, it has nothing to do with being weak," you say. "As a matter of fact, how about we arrrm wrestle to prove it? If you win, I'll drink a shot of whatever you put in front of me."

Paddy agrees, and the two of you sit down and start wrasslin'. The match is a real cliffhanger - he almost beats you with his over-the-top move, but you're driven to keep pressing on until you can see daylight. Finally, you slam his hand onto the table.

"Well, I guess I was wrong about you, adventurer," Paddy says, massaging his bicep. You smile a smugly superior smile and go back to not drinking at a barrr.

You gain 60 Muscleboundness.

Occurs at Barrrney's Barrr.