Thomas Kinkade Conquering the Storms

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the silence in the bar took on a whole new intensity in which the sound of a stool being slowly pushed back was like the creak of doom. All eyes swivelled to the other end of the room, where sat the one drinker in the Mended Drum who came into category C.
What Tomjon had thought was an old sack hunched over the bar was extending arms and – other arms, except that they were its legs. A sad, rubbery face turned towards the speaker, its expression as melancholy as the mists of evolution. Its funny lips curled back. There was abolutely nothing funny about its teeth.
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Tomjon opened his mouth to speak, but Hwel nudged him sharply in the knee. Put up with it, put up with it, slip out as soon as possible, it was the only way . . .
'Where's your little pointy hat, then?' said the bearded man.
The room had gone quiet. This looked like being cabaret time.
'I said, where's your pointy hat, dopey?'
The barman got a grip of the blackthorn stick with nails in which lived under the counter, just in case, and said, 'Er—'
'I was talking to the lawn ornament here.'
The man took the dregs of his own drink and poured them carefully over the silent dwarfs head.
'I ain't drinking here again,' he muttered, when even this tailed to have any effect. 'It's bad enough they let monkeys drink here, but pygmies—'
Now the silence in the bar took on a whole new intensity in which the sound of a stool being slowly