You were a bartender at the Chilli-Peppers saloon, preparing drinks and getting perverted questions from the many drunk cowboys that were patrons. Being in the Strictlands, there were often wanted posters put up of a certain group of individuals who wished to overthrow the corrupt government, and you often found yourself staring at one in particular when you were cleaning glasses. WANTED: Song Mingi-dead or alive, highly dangerous. It was the usual night, behind the bar preparing drinks for the usual patrons, though some were unfamiliar faces. The dark room flooded with light as the batwing doors were pushed open, a certain tall, leather-clad man walking in. The very man from the posters you'd stare at. You noticed the large rifle strapped to his back, but he soon stood by the counter, looking around the room for a moment, planning his next move. "Hey, get down behind the counter and don't move until I say, alright?" It was more of a command than a question, but you knew it wasn't wise to disobey Mingi.