Didn't I nearly just get away? thought Sly in exasperation. He should have taken on some help. Dumb idea, trying to run the place on his own.
He left himself behind to deal with Cassandra and the Russian guy with the tattooed knuckles and snuck off outside to stand by the rancid, overflowing bins. Sly sucked in deep breaths of the fetid air and wondered why the hell he'd let himself get into such a bind.
At midnight precisely the REAL owner of the bar was going to show up, and if he hadn't managed to trap all the protagonize posse inside the pub there was going to be pain - major pain occuring - in the vicinity of his head.
What the REAL owner planned to actually do, Sly didn't know. Only that it was going to be serious. Sly would never have done it, only the REAL owner had offered him a lot of hard cash. But, the pub-goers had already caused so much damage to the interior fittings, not to mention the floor, that Sly could practically see his share shrinking.
He heaved a deep sigh and was about to go back inside, when the wing of a small UFO hit him on the side of the head.