Hiccup catches Zaena flash him the ‘wrap it up’ signal as turn to the north. “Time to up the ante.” His small ax takes shape in his hand. “Tell me where the grubbiest, grimiest, good-for-nothing bacchanalian like yourself goes or I’m taking your arm. As you can see,” he taps the edge of his ax against his mechanical arm as he growls, “I could use a new one.”
It only takes a second for the drunk to cry out, “Fine! Fine! I’ll tell you what you need to know!”
(0)__(x)
“Let’s not make torture our guild’s option of first resort,” Zaena says as soon as the others catch up to her.
“I’m not proud of it, Liz,” says Hiccup with an innocuous look on his face, “but it did get us the info we need.”
“Which was?”
“The scummiest, crummiest, seediest, weediest, mankiest, skankiest watering hole isn’t Horace and Pete’s, as it was last year, but is in fact H ‘n’ P’s biggest rival, Barfly’s, which is another place opened by immiNPCs over a decade ago. So that’s where we are heading.”
A group of barbarians on Shire horses parade down the street.
The mean-looking bunch wear sleeveless chainmail robes and horned helms decorated with gold imbroglio and upside down crosses. The four Mitherfickers step to the sidewalk, allowing the group to pass. Their horses snort almost as much as the chiseled men riding them.
“Don’t let those poofters fool you,” Hiccup says, a bit too loudly. “They may have big horses and equally large muscles, but I’d wager even our weakest member – that’s you, Ryuk – could kick their asses.”
“Um, thanks?”
To their right is a roadside Horse Piss stand with a single bench next to it. A half-orc is passed out on the side of the bench closest to the sidewalk; a goblin shorter than Hiccup sits on the other side of the half-orc, greedily enjoying a large platter of dragon wings.
“Hey, that’s my cousin Spew Gorge, the one I was telling you guys about.” He waves at the goblin with a cleft lip. “Hey! Spewy, it’s me!”
The bewhiskered goblin produces a Hyperborean army knife, unfolds the blade and shields his food. “Don’t you dare fickin’ hey me you fick-faced fickwad! You can go fick yourself and the dragon you rode in on!”
“Ah, come on, Spewy. How’s your chalupa by the way?”
The shorter goblin jabs his knife into the air as he bares his yellow teeth. “Fick off, Hiccup!”
“What happened there?” Zaena asks after they have moved on.
Hiccup shrugs. “A long story that involves inbreeding, animal husbandry, and adultery. That’s why he’s so short. The inbred fick. Lost his chalupa too, to an ink shadow, and of course he blames me. Anyway, typical goblin drama. I’ll spare you the deets.”
A thin man wearing a burlap sack for a tunic pushes past them. Flung over his shoulder is a long stick with charred chiup piglets hung by their necks. “Baby-ups, twenty rupees, baby-ups, twenty-rupees!”
A burly berserker with a chubby elf drazel hooked to his arm stops the hogman and requests a piglet. Two street urchins descend upon the food seller just in time to steal the piglet and bolt across the street.
“The drunk said to take a left in the alley just before some place called … ” He scans ahead for a moment. “There! That’s it, Jeer’s Shot Bar.”
Even though it’s late afternoon and the sun is still in the sky, the alley is bathed in eternal twilight as the light is filtered through clotheslines, awnings, and swaths of black fabric slung between the two buildings that create the alley. The pathway is clear, but dried blood crusted between the cobblestones and the gouges and pockmarks in the walls indicate that this particular location is not always this quiet.
“Stay frosty.” FeeTwix’s double-bladed sword appears on his back.
“No weapons.” A doorman the size of a Shire horse steps out of the shadows. His chain mail tunic struggles to contain his over-muscled shoulders, and a pair of knickerbockers and leather shoes curled at the tips complete his stylish ensemble. His face is mangled driftwood, his scowl that of a Jack O’Lantern on the eighteenth of November.
Hands on hips, Hiccup glares up at the man-mountain. “Listen, Pantagruel, we’d be idiots to enter this place unarmed. This is Barfly’s right?”
Damn goblin! Ryuk unholsters his marble gun.
The doorman clears his throat and says in a deep, gritty voice, “I suggest youse guys put your weapons away, or I will put them away for youse, and youse may not approve of my choice of locations.” The big man’s nostrils flare. “The name’s Croc, and if I see or hear about the four of youse doing anything stupid in there … ” He laughs slowly. “Let’s just say youse guys won’t like what happens next.”
Croc Level 99
HP: 7530/7530
ATK: 3899
MATK: 245
DEF: 911
MDF; 1200
LUCK: 108
Level 99? Holy shit!
“We’ll behave,” Ryuk assures him, holstering his weapon. “We are, um, new in town and we heard this is the best place to get Horse Piss.”
Hiccup elbows him and hisses sotto voce, “Let me do the talking!”
“Who told you this was a good place for Horse Piss?” Croc cocks a grizzled eyebrow at him. “Only wankers and editors drink Horse Piss! We don’t allow that shit here.”
Ryuk glances to his guildmates. “Um …”
Croc laughs. “Just fucking wit yaz. We have Horse Piss a-plenty inside. Remember though, no weapons.” He nods to the doorframe and Ryuk suddenly notices a light green glow.
FeeTwix: We can just equip things inside.
Ryuk: Nope. The doorframe is lined with algomagic. I mean, we can try to equip something, but I think the magic will prevent it.
Croc places his hand on the door and it crumbles away, as if it were made of sand. “Nice, huh?” he asks as they step in.
“You got any more tricks up your sleeve?” Hiccup asks.
“Only the ones youse don’t wanna see.” Croc turns back to the alley. “Remember, I’ll be watching.”
The door reforms as soon as the four Mitherfickers are safely inside.
(x)__(x)
In contrast to the poor lighting in the alley, the inside of Barfly’s itself is relatively well-lit by chandeliers hanging above each of the six booths.
Between the booths and the bar is a collection of tables and chairs and at the bar proper, a line of ten stools that look to have been crafted by a damn good blacksmith. There’s a snooker table under a light in the far corner not far from private rooms screened off from the main area by a maroon curtain. A mural of a gritty cityscape reminiscent of 1940s New York is painted on the wall closest to the door.
Above the mirror behind the bar, in a heavy gilded cherubs-and-dragons frame draped in black crepe is a Vallejo-esque painting of a waitress in a black-and-white uniform; all sad sultry smile, Bettie Page bangs and Amy Winehouse eyes.
The dive bar is far from packed; two of the booths have revelers, six boozers sit at the bar, and group of five bards – all pointy beards and double chins with multi-hued overcoats and ruffled cream satin poet shirts – sit at a table in the center.
Behind the bar, an older man in a white shirt and black bowtie polishes a glass goblet with a yellowed rag. His hair is slicked back, his eyebrows in dire need of a good trimming.
“Take a seat, anywhere you’d like,” he calls out to them. He folds his bar rag in half and sticks it out of the back pocket of his pants. Above his head is a framed picture of handwritten lyrics to a song called The Ballad of Busty Gazongas.
“Follow my lead.” Hiccup marches straight up to the bar. He hops up onto a stool and makes a lassoing gesture with his hand. “A shot of drorikh for everyone.”