Suddenly, the world seemed to slow down. Marshall rose from the booth, his shadow stretching long across the floor. He began to chant a low, guttural melody. Barney scrambled backward, his back hitting the mahogany bar. The rest of the gang stood up, forming a circle like witnesses to a holy ritual.

Marshall didn't blink. "There are no truces in , Barney. Only the appointment."

The air in was thick with the scent of cheap beer and the electric hum of a countdown that had been years in the making. Marshall Eriksen sat in the booth, his fingers drumming a rhythmic, menacing beat on the laminate tabletop. Opposite him, Barney Stinson was a vibrating mess of expensive suit fabric and pure, unadulterated terror.