“Little winged bimbos! That’s what they think we are now, little winged bimbos,” the tall, handsome man slumped over the bar. He gestured at the level of his empty pint glass. “They think we’re this high.”
The barman watched him, the last customer left, with the resignation of a man who had talked to a thousand miserable drunks.
“So who’s we, mate?” the barman asked, working up to throwing out the poor sod gently.
“We are the Gentry,” the drunk tried to draw himself upright and instead tottered slightly, “the Good Neighbours, the fairies.”
“Right… ‘fraid if that’s what you’re looking for, you’re come to the wrong sort of bar, mate.”
The drunk glared, sweeping back his long hair to reveal a slightly pointed ear. “We’re not that either! I’ve had dozens of beautiful mortal women! Dozens! All at once!”
“’Course, mate.”
“In the old days the likes of you would have trembled before me! You would have given me mead for free, just so I didn’t curse you.”
“Curse me all you like, mate, that’ll be £37.50 please.”