“At least a dozen. Maybe more.”

“You’re telling me, Goat, that you personally — alone — you have slain a dozen Drasks,” said Rasch, balking at his towering companion.

Goat knocked back a pint of Ramsbrew with a single swallow, “Probably more. I don’t count them.”

“Oh, I’m just sure you have,” said Rasch, crossing his arms with a grimace.

“Her. Over there. She was with me for at least three of them,” Goat pointed at another Slayer who was easing her contusions with a stiff drink, “Saved her from getting blasted, too.”

“Of course! Exterminating the entire Drask population while saving everyone in the bar, huh? Or have you only snatched half of them from the jaws of death?”

Goat stared back over his shoulder, making a slow tally of the bar’s rough patrons. Rasch fumed and drank.

“Nope. Probably only about one out of every… five or so.”

Rasch choked on a mouthful of beer, launching into a fit of coughs and curses.

Goat clapped his friend on the back to help him, “I guess make that two out of five.”