To the greasy-haired bastard in the brass goggles,

Listen here, you nutless, piece of baldagaar shit. Just because you’re some hotshot airship mechanic from Vanvale doesn’t give you the right to slap my Margaret’s backside at the Rusty Cog last night. She’s a respectable woman who serves drinks to put food on our table, not some automation for your amusement.

I saw you laughing with your fancy friends, flashing around your 50 Quill notes like you own the place. Well, Mr. “I Work for Lord Solomon,” let me tell you something – I may just be a simple gear grinder, but I can fix your smug face real quick if you try that again. And I couldn’t give a rat’s ass who you work for.

And don’t think those brass knuckles you were showing off scare me. I’ve worked the foundry floor for thirteen years. My fists are harder than anything you’ve ever maintained on Lord Solomon’s precious airships. Margaret says I should “be the bigger man” and let it go. Says you were “just drunk and stupid.” Well, I’ve got news for you – next time you’re in the Rusty Cog, you’d better keep your hands to yourself or you’ll be learning what it feels like to be a broken gear in need of replacement.

Also, you still owe 15 Quill on your tab. Margaret’s too nice to mention it, but I’m not. Pay up, you walking pile of baldagaar shit.

With all the warmth of a block of ice from the Iron Mountains,

George Davidson (The large fellow with the mechanical arm who was glaring at you all night)

P.S. – And yes, the mechanical arm works just fine. Would you like a demonstration of how far I can ram it up your backside? Just try me!

P.P.S. – Your brass goggles are fake. Everyone can tell. You’re not fooling anyone.