The Swan was not the Swan that was, having been rebuilt and refurbished with pillars and beams of not-rot wood which held the pub in a perpetual state of sterile decay and put thruppence on a pint. The Swede stood in the doorway, framed against the grim, grey autumnal streets; his eyes grasping in vain for some wisp of wretched memory.

Nothing remained.

The nicotine splashed walls and strawburst dartboard were burned and buried - dead and done with - and cats shit no more in the lounge. The thief followed, his eyes tired to blood from a night of passion with his scaley-backed wives. He greeted his friend with a loud "Hello", and smiled at the legend which hung above the bar :

A Clean Glass With Every Round

At the old Swan you were lucky to get a clean glass with the first. Strangler arrived next, but said nothing for he thought hard but talked soft. As he gazed upon the boyish good looks of the Swede, his aura of menace softened a little, but he looked dangerous still. Hague the Warrior arrived soon after, impatient as ever for the battle ahead, he nonetheless smiled as he prepared to enjoy this evening with his friends. He knew as they all knew that this night might be his last, yet he was not afraid.

It was ten minutes before Mustapha the Magician and Brother Arnold arrived together, nodding as they saw the group of existentialist vegetarians with superior bowels who sat opposite their friends discussing real ale and rain forests, for their presence had been predicted by Arnold outside as he spied the flock of Citroen 2CV6s that cowered in a corner of the car park. " Jesus Christ", he said, "it's a bloody social workers convention". It was the twilight of the idols, which at this time of the year is quite early and the pub was empty save for the bearded and beaded ones and the Swede and his friends, (and of course the Brown Bear which lay at their feet). As the hours passed many would join them, but for now they waited for just one - The Prince. He arrived at last, having been held up by a man trying to sell chocolate covered cotton - a fine idea indeed - truly Swede.

For an hour they engaged in those great Anglo-Saxon rituals of friendship and respect, they thumped one and other on the shoulder, they spread insults like a child with ketchup, they had finger races around the table, (at which Brother Arnold the Gifted was of course adept). Who would have believed that these six were great heroes on the eve of a dangerous and bloody quest. Not the Bear for sure, for he slept soundly. By now the pub was filling up and the friends bathed in the atmosphere of jollity and goodwill until it was shattered most abruptly. Hague's head exploded.

The shock of this was intensified by the fact that it occurred during a lull in the hubbub both at the table and in the pub as a whole. This is often the way. For the Swede it was a double blow - for not only had he lost a valuable friend, but when you head into battle as they would tomorrow, a great warrior is a handy man to have around. Saddened by their friend's sad death, and disappointed by the sudden lack of atmosphere in the pub, they finished their drinks and left to find somewhere more lively. The Swede, Mustapha, Brother Arnold and the Prince each said a soft farewell to Hague, Strangler shed but a single tear for he thought long but spoke short and Soze the thief took the Warrior's money, cigarettes, lighter and banjo. It's want he would have wanted.