It was just beginning to get dark, Smitts started to get flustered as she realised how late it was getting. "Get dressed Greaso! We're gunna be late ya' numb-head!" she shrieked at her husband.

Greaso whipped out his spring-wound, bi-functional chronometer and thrust it in her face, "We've still got two hours! Sheesh."

"Ya can't go meeting a business partner lookin' like a homeless gnome. Ya gotta get changed." She insisted.

"You worry too much," he smirked, "Boz and I go way back. Besides, last time I saw him, he was wrapped in a bedsheet and buried in books."

Smitts raised an eyebrow, "What on earth is a stinkin' mage gonna do for us?"

"Mage?" Greaso cackled, "Boz is a businessman first. Besides, word is his studies have taken something of a... Fel bent. He's gonna hook us up with the connections, and the labour, to transport our business right into Orgrimmar's high street - The Drag."

"Our business?" Smitts made a face, "I ain't never seen you with a needle and thread."
...