Let's tell spontaneous stories.

Cursing, the stranger poured mead sloppily into a tall glass at the bar. Where it struck the old teakwood, there was hissing, barely perceptible; by the proper laws of chemistry such sound was forbidden - but they were not applying this night.

Wavell's Night! Twelve hours, in midsummer, following the longest day of the year; the night named after the man science spurned churned like a wave of chaotic reality through the world like a knife through boiling, seething, supercritical water, a mass discharge of energy and entropy bleeding into realms just beyond the familiar, the thickness of an atom away.

The stranger cursed again, bustled about the empty inn as he checked the chronospatial resonators situated in a perimeter in the walls; true to his suspicions, one had been malfunctioning. A leak of strange and eldritch circumstance had drifted in, and expended itself on the unreal chemistry currently eating its way through the bar.

He twiddled a knob, and turned around.

The mug held beer, and the Formica bartop was clean.