A a muffled gunshot rang out from behind, and below, the bar, coupled with loud cursing and things clanking. A few moments later, a prospect opened the downstairs door, digging a finger in his ear. Careful, unbalanced steps started up the stairs. The door swung open again, as Ray entered the bar, a smoking gun in his paw. Holstering the firearm, the raccoon started towards Jeremy, his hook-shaped carbon-fiber prosthetics hiss-clicking as he moved. Ray looked like he had just woken up, his eyes bloodshot and hair a mess. "Jeremy," he said with a smile, "what's the good word?" A good head and shoulders shorter than Jeremy, Ray had to look up at his boss, owed to Ray's short prosthetics.