Even if he were gifted with all the game in the world, the stout and balding and kilted man shouting "Lightning bolt!" while hurling wads of fake magic at a man dressed like an ogre has a steep uphill climb away from being that guy. Put him in street clothes but you can't make his palms stop sweating or the stories of his fantastic exploits from tumbling out of his mouth in a quivering voice pitched uncomfortably high for every non-deaf person within earshot. You're just trying to do a keg stand and this guy's all in your left ear with paladins and chaotic good while your boy is screaming "Drink!" in your right. And it's like, what are you gonna do? You're upside down with guys you don't know all that well holding your ankles, just trying to ball.
The Fake Magic Thrower