Richard reels back. Well. That was a confimation that he was, in fact, correct in thinking that only blunt force would be useful in dealing with these undead monsters.

The only problem is, and he notes this with some trepidation, everyone around him seemed to prefer using laser beams and magic powers. Which means his suggestions to alpha strike would, of course, fall on deaf ears since they could just shoot magic beams and missiles at all of them.

His shoulders slump, and then he shrugs. Well. When in Rome...

He reaches into his trenchcoat and pulls out a flask. Normally, it's a terrible idea to get drunk in arctic temperatures- it might seem as though you're warming up, but that's simply a function of getting sloshed, which will not prevent you from losing fingers. And normally, he's not the type to drink, which is why this seemed like a weird turn of events to anyone that knew him.

That is, until the zippo came out.

With a spray of strong alcohol, a gout of flame spewed out of his mouth. A [Fire Breath], if you will. He wasn't quite able to maintain one long, steady stream of firey death, but he managed to at least try and get everyone invited to that awful party.