"A tankard of mead, good sir, if you please."

"Mead?"

"Your finest honeyed wine, yes."

"I'm afraid that we don't carry mead,

Mr. Neblesh," the barkeep said.

Mr. Neblesh was puzzled for a moment,

then remembered that he was still wearing

the laminated nametag from that afternoon's

convention. He unpinned it and tucked it into

his jacket pocket.

"I address you not as Mr. Neblesh,"

the sometimes Mr. Neblesh said,

leaning in close, "but as Glint Longsteel,

Level 80 Tauren Warrior."

"I don't think that I know what means, sir."

"I am Harry Neblesh in the world world,"

Neblesh explained. "But I am Glint Longsteel,

Bane of the Bloodsail Buccaneers, 

in the World of Warcraft."

"Is that a game, sir?"

"Is this world a game?"

"That's nicely put, sir."

"Observe the Spiked Titanseel Helm

 upon my head, the Hateful

 Gladiator's Cloak of Triumph

 upon my back, the Pendant of

 the Outcast Hero around my neck. "

"I'm afraid that I can't see them, sir."

"No? Well, you shall see them when we meet in Azeroth."

"Is that the new  Italian place down the the way?"

"No. No, Azeroth is not the the new Italian place down the way."

"I hear that it's nice. That new Italian place."

"I am revered by the Darkspear Trolls,

 exalted by the Knights of the Ebon Blade,

 and honored by the Sons of Hodir."

The bartender thought about that for a while.

"You sound," he said at last,

"like a man who might enjoy a Zima."

"If you have no mead," Glint Longsteel said,

"then, yes. A Zima would be fine"