Swordey Barfight

There are few men who order milk in a bar, and I'm smart enough to know that none of them are men you want to tangle with. problem is, I'm pretty smart. Most people around here aren't. The peices of the former patrons of the bar speak volumes for the particular brand of stupidity common here.
I knew the man would be trouble when he walked in, but I was mistaken as to what kind. He was dressed in the standard getup; big red cape, dark clothes, light armor where there was armor, and one enormous hat that covered most of his face. A lot of people like those hats, and a lot of them die because they can't see. he moved over to the bar and eased himself onto a stool near the far wall. An enourmous, scarred muscle sat down next to him.
"you're new here!" rumbled the muscle. The hat did not move.
"I don't like new folk," he continued after a pause, "they die real quick". The hat did not move.
"Now, if you're fast enough, I think you could run your scrawny ass all the way to the edge of town before I turn you inside out. You think you're fast, boy?"
The muscle broke into a grin and let out a few hearty laughs. The hat turned toward the muscle. A line of spattered blood appeared on the wall behind the enormous muscle. The before the new man's cape could settle from the sudden movement, the muscles legs gave way and he separated at the waist as he hit the floor. blood flowed copiously and a short spurt took flight as the muscle let out the loudest, and last, cry of pain in his life. The hat turned back to the bar and focused on the bartender as he came out from the back.
"cleanup," said the hat as he dashed some coins on the bar. he set down a few more.
"Milk."
"Milk?" asked the bartender with a raised eyebrow.
The hat nodded his assent.
I had been reviewing the scene in my head, but I didn't realise what I had scene until I heard his drink of choice. The muscle was more correct than he could have known; this man was fast.
A few of the patrons left hurriedly. the rest just drew their weapons. I retreated to the relative safety of a far table.
The cape ruffled as the man threw a sack of gold on the counter.
"Cleanup," he said as he pushed up from the bar with his hands.
This one was smart, I can tell you. He removed the most problematic enemies first. He was in front of the first gunman in less than a blink. leaking blood, the gunman's hands still gripped the pistols as they fell floorward. he couldn't possibly have realised it because his head had suffered a similar fate. blood sprayed out in front of him as his arteries launched a volume that took the newly opened detour. His head was off by the second heartbeat and a jet of last life arced into the air. the man in the hat had already moved on. The rifleman was very fast also, but the mechanism in his rifle was not made to function with the rifle split lengthwise. The cape passed him before his forearms and gut separated. Like the living muscle, the rifleman had the breath left to scream.
The next man had no such luck. The milk-drinking man had separated his torso across his lungs, crossing the strap that held his rifle on his back. his left hand grasped futilely at the air as he fell. the cape passing his eyes was probably his last sight. A fourth man was split down the middle. his heart splashed blood on his falling right side as the first man's guns finally hit the floor. I realised the cape was not flowing as smoothely as before; it was soaked in blood. Only later did note the wisdom of the cape: his brutal style would be hell on clothes if he did not wear it.
two of the faster swordsmen were drwn and advancing. Their blades were split as if wood. The man in the cape brought his own blood-soaked blade against each of thiers in turn and continued through in graceful arcs. one man's head was split, the other lost his entirely. The cape puncuated the jets of gore the emenated from their wounds. The man in the hat dispatched several more men with equal ease.
Blood covered the floor, spotted the walls. As the dead fell to the floor, I found only four remained: the barkeep, myself, the man in the hat, and one swordsman drinking liquor. he set his glass down and grinned.
The cape flowed forward, around the man in the hat, attempting to continue the motion that had been so abruptly stopped. The two swordmen were motionless as they pitted their strength against each other, blades crossed. a few tense seconds oozed by. Neither moved.
The man in the hat moved first. he turned his blade to the flat. the whiskey swordsman's blade slid down into the spiked handgaurd of the opposing blade. The man in the hat twisted the hilt. The Whiskey swordsman pulled back his blade and redied himself, smug. Of course a swordbreaker would be ineffective.
The man in the hat saw the smugness. He moved toward the only weakness he could see. Both men dropped to one knee as the man in the hat slid to a stop behind his target. The hat slid off his head, split beautifully. the clatter of the blade as it hit the wet floor was dull but deafening to senses such as mine were then. Then the whiskey swordsman fell apart, the pieces landing wetly on the blood-drenched floor. The man stood up. He was consumed in blue flame as the wetness was purged from his weapon and clothes.
"Milk up!" cried the bartender as the man's magic faded.
"Thank you," said the man in the cape as he sat at the bar.
Sometimes I think the only people with any brains in this town are the bartender and me.