Excerpt: Sword(s) of Destiny: All Half Price!

A tall, thin, wispily- bearded man was standing in front of the helmet display, a plastic water bottle from Scotland on his head.
In front of him, there was a dwarf. The dwarf looked fairly typical, with an abnormal number of braids in his brown-black hair and beard, with lots and LOTS of beads of various type and size and colour and material. Some were wood, some were glass, some were clay, and a few might have been bone and pearl. He wore leather armour, and a light chain shirt that was probably made out of aluminium instead of steel.
And he was holding a Winchester rifle trained at the man.
“Now, what were you saying?!” the dwarf shouted.
The man shifted uncomfortably, and the water bottle wobbled on his head. “Er—”
“Doom!” Brandibush cried, striding the long way around the centre cabinets so that she ended up in between the man and the dwarf. She glared at the dwarf. “Mister Doom, what do you think you are doing?!”
The dwarf glared up at Brandibush. “Out of the way, Bran. This moron assumed that simply because I’m a dwarf that I—that I’m—” Mister Doom, the dwarf, sputtered and fell silent.
Brandibush glanced over her shoulder at the man. He had paled considerably. “You asked him about axes, didn’t you?”
The man swallowed. “I—he’s a dwarf, I thought that he’d—”
“I HATE axes!” Mister Doom shouted. “Everyone expects dwarfs to love them, because they’re – they’re axes, seriously, can’t one of us use a war hammer or something? And I don’t even like war hammers, they have no flash, now step aside Bran and let me use my boomstic—”
“Mister Doom—”
“I will not be insulted in thinking that just because I’m vertically challenged I prefer crude weapons!” Mister Doom’s voice went shrill.
Brandibush sighed, then grabbed the end of the barrel around a line of filigree enlayed to read boomstick with one hand and ripped the rifle out of Mister Doom’s hands.
“Hey!” Mister Doom hopped as Brandibush held it above her head. “No fair!”
“Er, miss?”
Brandibush sighed as she glanced back at the customer. “No, I’m not worry about it going off accidentally; if it shoots anyone it’ll hit me and I don’t exactly have to worry about that. Except for sewing bits up later.”
Mister Doom stopped hopping and crossed his arms, sulking. “Stupid zombies with unnatural strength.”
Still holding the rifle above her head, Brandibush grabbed Mister Doom by the wrist and pulled him towards the stairs down to the stock room. “We are going to have a talk, Mister Doom. Jimmy, help the customer. And I’d recommend the hand- axe with a nice twenty- five percent discount, if I were you.”