"Hey!" a bartender yelled loudly, his usually jovial face filled with wrinkles and frown lines – a clear indication of his disapproval, perhaps anger. Scratch that, he was definitely and irreversibly angry. He waved a beer bottle frantically at the runner, with no sense of direction – in fact the helpful piece of glass was going in random cycles, up-and-down, even roller coaster motions. The bartender wrinkled his nose once again, and immediately aimed for the runner's feet as if to literally stop him in his tracks.

Unfortunately, although he was naturally a sharp shot due to his business dealing with unruly customers, he'd really never had to deal with an oddly faster-paced run-a-way. Well, he did actually, but hit-and-runners were his least favorite group of people, since he desperately wanted money in his happily thriving place of drinking and sorts. Sure, he could handle gang members who went into his home just to trash it, but a runner... He hated them, especially if they provoked him specifically. And he didn't even notice this certain person! How cruel and unusual.

The nasty memory ran over and over in his mind like a broken record. He growled loudly, scaring his clients, who had only come here to relax amid the urban chaos. So far, it was easy to distinguish between the newcomers and regulars by their apparent reactions to the lovely bartender's actions.

Ugh! Without a mind for his business interests at stake, the bartender jumped over the counter and seized a lonely stool and ran out of the pub, ignoring the understandable astonishment of a newly engaged couple and the rhythmic slurping of old dudes. He didn't care that he had just crashed through the doors. As usual, his one-track mind screamed at him with a piercing phrase:

I'm getting you this time... Izaya!

And he promptly threw the sad stool, which perfectly hit that ridiculous rascal.