Agent Jaune walked into the bar and found himself flat on his back. The bar was a lot lower than he expected.

“Oh, so sorry about that!” The bartender walked over, wiping his hands on a towel. “We had the Biannual International Convention for Vertically Challenged Individuals yesterday, so everything was brought down. Haven’t had a chance to pull everything back up.”

Taking the offered hand, the agent stood. He knew all about the short person convention. The biannual meet up for the leprechauns, imps and dwarves of the supernatural world. Agent Onze, the shortest agent in PHSE, had infiltrated the convention, but no one had heard from him since.

“Was the convention a success?” He asked politely.

“Well, there were less plans for world domination this time.” The bartender said casually, wandering back over to the bar.

“World-world domination?!” Agent Jaune yelped. This is something Mary Moe would need to know about. “What were they going to do?”

“Just a culling of all persons over the height of 4’6”. At least, that’s what they’d planned last time.”

“And… this time?” The agent was almost afraid to ask.

“Luxury condos for short people. They actually had some very good ideas. One of them had plans for specially designed golf carts and everything.”

Agent Jaune slowly walked across the room, taking in the hip-high bar, knee high barstools and –

BANG

Very, very low hanging lights.

“Oh!” The bartender turned a crank and the lights rose till they were at the same level as the rafters. “Sorry, I keep forgetting that not everyone can dodge the lights. Gotten into the habit of doing it myself, I guess.”

Rubbing his eyes in an attempt to stop seeing double, Agent Jaune wondered if he’d survive this assignment.

“So is there something I can help you with?”

Hmm?

“No one comes to a bar this early in the morning. Did you need something?”

“Ah yes, actually. Just, seeing if you’d seen someone.” The agent took a seat at the bar, and immediately felt like a middle-schooler with his knees drawn up to his chest.

“You know…” The bartender began, walking back around the bar, “Why don’t you help me bring out the taller stools, and then we can talk.”

Okay…? Not foreboding at all.

Nodding, the agent went to agree but was interrupted by the sudden entrance of two very different women. One was tall, slim and pale, with dark hair swinging behind her and blood red lips curving into a smile. The other was shorter, stockier, and tan, with bright eyes, a mass of curly hair and pronounced canines that flashed as she laughed.

“Victoire, why do you torture me so?!”

The pale one held a had to her mouth as she giggled. “Because it’s amusing to see you all hot and bothered.”

The agent’s eyes narrowed. What accent was that?

“Victoire, Romy, please, if you need a room, there are perfectly serviceable ones upstairs, but not in my bar!”

Victoire laughed. “Yes Romy, let us not upset the poor Englishman’s posh sensibilities.”

The bartender huffed. “This is a bar, not a club.”

“Not on Thursdays!” The girls interrupted cheerfully.

“AND,” He continued, “You will take your cute, fornicating little behinds some place where I don’t have to watch others get some while I have none.”

“Awwww…” Victoire purred, walking over to drape herself across the man’s back. “You want some company? Uncle is always looking for some… new blood.”

Slipping away, the bartender gave her a deadpan look. “You can tell your uncle that I have no desire to move to move to the Carpathians and join his harem. Not to mention, I am perfectly happy being straight.”

“Not on Thursdays!” The girls chorused.

Waving a stern finger, the bartender walked away, shouting over his shoulder, “We don’t talk about Thursday!”

“Uhhhh…” Agent Jaune was confused. “I-I’m just gonna… I’ll go give him a hand.”

And he walked away at a fast pace.

“Do you think he’s gonna remember the bar?”

BANG

“Nope.”

Yet another bruise marking his forehead, the agent slipped into the back room and accepted a stack of stools from the bartender.

“Just ignore those girls. And if they offer to introduce you to one of their friends, don’t accept. You’ll end up dead drunk in a ditch faster than you can say O Doamne de ce.”

“Okay…?”

“Really, don’t. They mean well, but they forget that not everyone has their kind of metabolism. Especially Victoire. Very little can get her properly drunk.”

“Uh… duly noted.”

“Anyway, once my bar’s back together, I’ll help you out. You’re looking for your friend?”

“Uh, yeah. He was going to be passing through here last night, but he never showed up for work.”

“Is he about 4 foot, wearing a jersey with an 11, and goes about telling everyone he’s Agent Onze when he gets really drunk?”

“That… sounds like him.” Why, oh why did he drink? He’s a horrible drunk!

“Well, you don’t need to worry about him. He made friends with Doc and his six brothers.”

“Ah. So… he did better than you?” Agent Jaune teased tentatively. That’s a normal reaction to being told your friend had gone home with seven dwarves, right?

A finger was waved in his face this time. “I don’t go for people who barely reach my waist.”

Back in the bar, the agent froze. He barely felt the bartender walk into his back.

“Whoa, whats… Ah.”

Victoire was holding up the bar. And when he said, ‘holding up’, he didn’t mean in a metaphorical sense. He meant it in a very physical sense, in the sense that she was holding the entire, at least five metres long bar to her chest without any apparent effort. Holding the bar and laughing as her (girl?)friend was moving legs of the bar into position. The solid wood legs, that helped to support the bar and the cabinets that were normally beneath. The eight legs, that she was holding over one shoulder without any apparent effort. And he doesn’t mean one leg, he means all eight legs.

In silence, the agent watched as the bar was set down, and the solid wood cabinets, all filled with all manner things secured behind metal and glass frontage were carried out of another room and placed under the bar. And the girls were carrying these individually.

“Ah, perfect timing!” Romy walked over and took the stools from his unresisting arms.

The bartender, his load removed, led him over to the now-assembled bar and handed him a glass of something. He downed it without even asking what it was, but the burn of alcohol was a comfort.

“How?!” He rasped.

“Victoire is a wrestler, and Romy’s her coach. They can bench-press almost double their weight. I hire them to help me set my bar up for the convention, and then put it to rights afterwards.”

“But-but Victoire can’t be more than 150 pounds! At the most, she could do 215 pounds! And-and Romy, I mean, she can’t be much different?”

“Nah sugar, I’m about 170 pounds.” Romy came and leant on the bar next to the nervous-wreck-that-was-once-a-very-highly-trained-agent. “I can do almost 300. 295, to be exact.”

“And I,” Victoire appeared on his other side, “Can press 260.”

“But-that-that’s impossible!” Agent Jaune stared at the pale, slim individual to his right. She looked like she should be a supermodel, not a wrestler. And Romy, the first thing that came to mind when you looked at her wasn’t wrestler.

“Well, what about you?” He turned to the bartender.

“Oh, don’t look at me! I don’t go to the gym. I’m a yoga kind of guy.”

“Mmmmm…” Romy hummed. “Mum’s a sucker for a good downward dog.”

Another finger was waved warningly in her direction. “I am not getting in between your parents. Your mother is strong enough, but your father can press twice as much as you.”

And that was it.

As darkness filled his vision, and strong hands caught him about his middle, Agent Jaune had only one thought.

They could snap me like a twig.