Say "last one to touch the floor buys the first round" then when my adventuring companions rush to touch the floor, kick one up the bum.

Give ＤＡＤＤＹＣＯＯＬ all my VIPCOINS.

"Tik-tik for what purpose didst thou kick me tik-tik?" I, an adult male Thri-Kreen wizard of <undetermined> level, say.

After brushing off my thorax I turn to the others and say, "Tik-tik, I shall cast lots in order to divine a purpose for our gathering, what say ye?" before beginning a simple divination.

Dipping my forelimb in some water and taking the glass from the surly bar maid I begin to rub my finger across the rim of the glass. "Don't think... tik-tik... feel...", I mutter while the glass begins emitting a haunting note.

Roll the dice to see how uphill I'm feeling

>>4
"you call this enough?? ineed at least 600 VIPCOINS come back when you're ready to be"
ＤＡＤＤＹＣＯＯＬ scowls and melts into the wall. You now have 0 VIPCOINS.

>>6
The dice fall down a floor vent. You're feeling pretty downhill about that.

The Thri-Keen continues to divine.

I, the half elven rogue, take a seat at the bar. "I'll have the extra-large," I tell the barmaid, then give her a seductive wink. "With extra green onion... if you know what I mean, sweet cheeks."

Try to cure your mind.

continues to divine

The tones of the glass begin to quicken into a familiar tune.

Sidle up to the bar and awkwardly mumble to the barmaid, while staring at my shoes, that I think she's cute.

I step into the tavern, dragon dicks spilling out of my arms.

　　　-‐‐- 、
／　　　　　ヽ
!　 !　人|,.iﾉl_ﾉ）
i 　乂-‐　−! i　Turn around, someone already tried paying with those.
＼ヽ .ゞ　- ﾉノ 　
　　｀｀フ　i´
　 　 / ＼ﾉゝ
　　/__i |丱!|
━━つ━つ━━∞∞∞========
==　　　NO DRAGON DICKS　　　　==
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

I step into the tavern, wearing nothing but a thong on my comically bulked barbarian physique. A froth of spittle appears at the corners of my mouth.

"Want a handkerchief?" I ask the barbarian.

"GRRWOROWOORORRrrwro" I say as I burst into the tavern, breaking down the door with my powerful bear claws.

Graargh, the barbarian says, accepting the proffered handkerchief and folding it neatly so it stays put under his thong. Mollified, the barbarian wipes the froth into his arm and takes a seat next to the bear.

　　　-‐‐- 、
／　　　　　ヽ
!　 !　人|,.iﾉl_ﾉ）
i 　乂-‐　−! i
＼ヽ .ゞ　- ﾉノ 　We don't serve bears here.
　　｀｀フ　i´
　 　 / ＼ﾉゝ
　　/__i |丱!|
━━つ━つ━━∞∞∞========

　　　-‐‐- 、
／　　　　　ヽ
!　 !　人|,.iﾉl_ﾉ）
i 　乂-‐　−! i
＼ヽ .ゞ　- ﾉノ Sorry, did I say bears? I meant beers
　　｀｀フ　i´
　 　 / ＼ﾉゝ
　　/__i |丱!|
━━つ━つ━━∞∞∞========

I, the cheeky halfling bard, stroll in amongst the ruckus and ask the barmaid what DO you serve here?

Based

on a /mu/ story.

I, the cheeky halfling bard, have absconded to the b-ball court and demand to be served my fool summarily.

I, the cheeky halfling bard, will reluctantly settle for nits if they are accompanied by a peek up your skirt, my lovely laconic serving-wench.

You exit the tavern proper to the b-ball court, a quintessential feature of any proper country inn. It is darkest night, and the full moon shines high in the sky.

Upon the dim ground of the court, veiled in mist, you witness the silhouettes of seven robed figures surrounding a summoning circle and chanting in a low voice. Straining your ears, you make out the words "I pulled up to a house about seven or eight, and I yelled to the cabby 'Yo, homes smell you later!'"

(If you succeed at a difficulty 20 Arcana roll, you understand that the ritual is nearly complete and calls upon a terrible force of darkness. It cannot be stopped.)

You fail to close the distance before one figure raises its arms high, and with a crackle and flash of eldritch lightning, a hole is torn in reality. The cultists are consumed as the price of their dark ritual, only smears of blood and the stench of charred flesh remaining. Then he steps through the portal. An unmistakeable visage. A dread lord that all in this realm know of, whether human or elf or halfling, though many thought him but a mere legend used to frighten children.

Reaching up, he seizes the moon without visible effort, plucking it from among the stars as if it were a ripe fruit from a tree.

And dunks it.

You tremble in instinctual terror as you bear witness to the advent of the Dark Lord Charles Barkley.

(Attempt a saving throw versus shutting up and jamming if you wish. Otherwise, roll for initiative.)

I bravely shit my pants and ready my zauber.