Grissom Montag loved parties. Just loved 'em. He sat at a table filled with women, regalling them with stories about his past adventures. They seemed incredibly captivated and were laughing at even the dumbest of his jokes.
"So I says to the Shiek guy, I says, 'Hey, is that a schimitar in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?'" The table roared with laughter as Grissom finished off the last of his Guiness and called for another pint. Maria, one of the girls from the meta bar Griss had heard so much about, sat comfortably under the Brit's left arm, while Kat, a metahuman contorsionist with feline agility, snuggled closely to his right side.
Receiving his pint, Grissom took a draught, then turned again to his captivated audience. "So, what'd you do Griss?" asked Sarah, who sat across the table from Montag.
"Well, ladies," Grissom said, relishing the attention, "let's just say that once he pulled his schimitar..." Every woman at the table gasped as a small carving knife suddenly appeared in Grissom's hand. "...I had the situation well in hand."
Cheers and applause erupted from the ladies at the table as Grissom lightly bowed his head and let go of the knife, which vanished from sight as soon as he did.
"Tell us another one, Griss," Kat cooed, looking up at his with her big brown eyes. A chorus of female voices echoed her sentiment. Grissom smiled again and took another drink of his ale.
"Alright," the ex-merc agreed as the ladies continued to insist, "but just one more. I'm anxious to get out there with some of youse to cut a rug. What say?"
All Grissom could see were smiles as he leaned forward and began to unweave another story. "So, there I was out in the desert sands of Morocco..."
