Molly Barnes pushed open the door of the Royal Sovereign. It wasn’t her usual watering hole, but The Old Pint Pot had become a bit too fancy for her tastes as of late. Besides, they were hosting a pub quiz and that wasn’t exactly up her alley… Last time she’d participated in one she’d passed out drunk before the second-to-last round, which was longer than her dad who hadn’t made it past the break, and had ended up dead last in rather embarrassing fashion.

But the Royal Sovereign was a bit more subdued, and more importantly: it was cheaper. From the seating to the food, to the drinks… They even charged less for a spot of pool, if you took a fancy to that. Molly’d never bothered learning the game. She’d tried taking up snooker once, but had ended up chucking the balls through the window and making a run for it. Boring sport for boring rich cunts, with their fancy outfits and thousand quid sticks. And the world champion wasn’t even British these days.

She took a seat right across the bartender, whose name was Marston. He finished drying off his glass.

Marston: “Alrite, Molly? Pint o’Guinness, mate?”

Molly: "Alrite? Half a pint o’Stella, I’m afraid. I’m a bit tight on cash right now."

Marston: “Should you be out drinking then? Not that I mind taking your money.”

Molly: "Cheaper if I do it in here than at home, mate. Electricity bill’s through the bloody roof. Unplugged me fridge yesterday, and there’s no need to keep the lights or the telly on. Besides, figured it’d be a good idea to go out, have a pint, or a half one or two or three, and start rambling incoherently while sipping from me choice of beverage. Being a dumb boring twat is what works these days. The load of shite I’ve had to listen to from that rich crusty wanksock who beat me on Anarchy was big enough to have Peter Crouch snort arsejuice."

Marston: “A charming image. Here you go, lass.”

Molly downed half the half-pint in one go, and shook her head.

Molly: "Now they’ve got me facing a caveman. Can you believe that? He’s a tough one I’ll grant you, but mate, if I wanted to fight a bloody caveman I’d take a walk to the quays and start swingin’. There’s tons of them about down there. But at least here I’ll get paid to do it, even if it barely covers the cost of living. Unless I win. That’s what winning means to me, mate. It means some breathing space. Not having to worry about what I’ll find when the postman’s come ‘round. At least for a week or two. They can pay enough out of their pockets to fly me all the way to fucking Chicago, but an actual fair wage for getting’ me head done in? Forget it."

Marston: “Well, sounds to me like the solution to your problems is to just keep winning then, eh?”

Molly: "Yeah, I was doin’ alrite mate, but there’s been a few hiccups if I’m being totally honest. Thing is right, it’s hard to get any momentum going but I do feel like I’ve been slowly getting better. Couldn’t wrestle me way out of a bloody wet paper bag on Madness, but it’s been better these days… even if there’s plenty of knobheads trying to spoil the soup. HGH might’ve been the worst fluke artist since bloody Westlife. And this Edward fella, he’s not even the worst of the two lads I’m facing mate. This other one, JB… You see the thing is, I unfortunately have to deal with a lotta Yanks in me line o’work , and often I’ve heard them ridicule me ‘cause they claim they can’t understand a word I’m saying, right? But I tried listening to that John Black fella and I had no idea what the fuck he was goin’ on about. Of course, he’s not getting any shite from that googly rat-eyed fake-as-fuck London accent spewin’ Tory-lovin’ stuck-up Princess. But guess who? Aye, it’s me."

Molly downed the rest of her glass and sighed.

Molly: "Bloody empty already? Why do you even offer smaller sizes than pints? Now I’m gonna have to order another one and it’ll probably be more expensive than having had just one pint."

Marston: “Aye, that’s usually how that works, Molly.”

Molly: "Oh, mate, do me a favour, yeah? I’ve got a bunch of tees here I’d like to sell. They’re supposed to go through the official XWF shop, but nobody will mind, I’m sure. What say you sell them, we split the profits in half, yeah? Win-win."

Molly reached into a large plastic ALDI bag and unfolded one of her new #PinTheRich t-shirts.

Molly: "Fancy, innit? Ironic too, since one week after I get a new t-shirt they put me in a match with the leading actor from 10.000 BC whose arse has never felt the touch of toilet paper, and a bloke who looks like he buys his fashion accessories with Monopoly money and talks in a way that would make Samuel Johnson blush. But you know what, mate? I’m feeling good about this one. EDWARD won’t go down easy, but I can take him. Everybody falls to the Barnestormer. As for JB, one headbutt to his stupid mug should sort him out. He probably doesn’t even know who the fuck I am and will be expecting a cakewalk. But it’ll be a shortcake if he thinks I’m easy pickings. Anyway, where are we on the t-shirts?"

Marston: “Fine, drop a pile in the corner there, I’ll put one on display. You just go on and win that match, yeah?”

Molly: "’Course I will, mate. I’m movin’ on up, innit? From Madness to Anarchy. And soon, I’m going for that gold. Show them what a true bloody Anarchist can do when it’s leading this brand. I’m not there yet, but… I’ll have that pint o’Guinness after all."