“I am my height. You should not be.” The short man bent down to the floor and jerked the stool out from under Cyril Rockandhammer.
At first the brawl was fueled with Cyril’s surprise and anger, but as the short man absorbed a few punches he hadn’t needed to take and passed over some great openings in Cyril’s defense the two turned to a measured fight between brothers. And just as the crowd grew bored of the unescalated action the short man stood. He offered his hand to Cyril.
“My name is Bogdan Grigoriu. Stand tall, friend.”
Cyril shook Bogdan’s hand from the floor then stood and straightened to his full seven feet on his own. He crashed into a sign which read, “Caution: Low Ceiling.” [lame gag I know]. “Dude, Cyril Rockandhammer. Can I get that beer now?
In the back of the beer-door an older priest turned to a younger one. The younger priest shrugged opened his hands.
“I think so too,” said the older one. “Mark them both, please.”
The younger priest manuevered to have a direct line of sight on Bogdan then pinched the air in front of him like he was grasping a thread. He drew back that imaginary thread and a wrinkle of vision—like catching a mote in your eye—drifted out of Bogdan’s back and across the room to the younger priest. Some might have said the effect was like reversing the throw of a dart and slowing it down and with a wrinkle of reality instead of the dart, but still. He manuevered again and did the same for Cyril.
xxx words on day 768