You go for the man in the jacket. Clearly, he's the bigger threat; the pale man doesn't look like he could break glass with a hammer. You shove him aside, off the stool, and move towards the man in the jacket.
The man in the jacket leaps to his feet and stands before you.
"Stop," he said. You gritted your teeth. What was he doing and how was he doing it? Whatever it was, it was making your head ache.
The dagger in your hand pulsates, and you share its irritation.
The man in the jacket walked towards you. You charged forward, knife ready, when suddenly black tendrils of shadow and smoke tore out from the man's jacket. You shouted as they grabbed your arms and legs, squeezing your wrists hard enough to make you yell out from pain. They held you aloft, and you tried to cut them with the knife, tried to get away, but couldn't.
As you struggled in their grasp, the man in the jacket went to the pale man. The tendrils hold you stationary in the air, seeming to stretch and grow to accommodate the movement of the man in the jacket.
"Are you alright?" he said to the pale man.
"Y-yeah," says the pale man. His eyes are wide and afraid and looking at you. "I didn't think it was so mean."
The man in the jacket turned his head towards the body of The Barkeep.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. He looks up at you, still hanging in the air, and though you still couldn't see his face, from beneath the unnaturally shadowed brim of his hat, you could make out one single, golden eye. One that stretched all the way across where a face would be.
The tendrils that bound you brought you close to him, directly in front of the golden eye.
He didn't touch you. he didn't move at all. He just looked at you with the gold eye, an eye that looked deeper and deeper by the moment, an eye you felt yourself falling into, as though you were being pulled forward despite not being moved at all.
Vaguely, in the back of your mind, you feel the dagger screaming at you. You feel yourself not caring. You feel the presence of the dagger slip farther and farther away, and you have only enough time to be horrified by your actions before you too slip away.
Your grip loosens, and the dagger clatters to the floor.
The tendrils recede, and you are left standing, staring mindlessly ahead with unfocused eyes.
"Do you still want it?" said the man in the jacket to his companion.
The pale man shakes his head. He gets up from the floor, and the man in the jacket helped steady him.
"No," says the pale man. "Not anymore. I don't want anything so mean."
"It won't be mean now," said the man in the jacket.
"I don't know. Not right now. Maybe later. Make it do something good." The pale man takes a deep, shuddering breath and leans against the bar counter.
The man in the jacket snapped his fingers, and you are suddenly filled with purpose. You lift the hinged counter top and go behind the bar. You find the tap and mugs easily, as if you'd always known where they were, as if you'd been here before, and you pour two drinks.
You pass the glasses over, and the two men drink in silence.
* * * * *
You've been drafted into an eternity of servitude! Dang!