Clear the Bar for Mike Hunt

He stands about three apples high with bleary, bloodshot eyes. He smells of

Dwarven stout and mold and dubious meat pies. He's banned from every tavern from

the coast up to the peaks. 'Cause once he starts to bending elbows,

he don't stop for weeks. He stumbles through the doorway. He's a hazard

to your shins. So guard your knees and guard your keys before the fight begins.

So clear the bar for Mike Hunt. He's tumbling through the door.

He's looking for a lager or a fight or maybe more. With Kegsplitter on

his shoulder dragging sparks across the land. He's the smallest, drunkest chaos in