A small pub near Fludoscarr.

my dear, if you think you can outdo Perry Cox in a multi-story barrage of profanity, malice, and unwarranted hatred, you are sorely mistaken, because the last person who thought so is currently busy hauling corpses out of a clinic without a gurney, collecting their spilling entrails in a bag, attaching labels to the rings he's wearing on his left thumb, inhaling the disgusting smell of formaldehyde, and dreaming of joining them as soon as possible, just to avoid his rage that's overflowing.