Tuesday, July 15, 2014
Adventurers, Go Fuck Yourselves.
The bar smelled like stale vomit and a million other cliches that you've read since birth and never wondered why they still hold true. Yet here I was, standing in the doorway as every eye turned on me, wondering why places like this never seem to go away entirely. The names change but the place never does.
Fuck, let's not waste time pondering the question and just call it part of the human condition.
I made my way over to a corner - since that's where they would expect to find me when they came staggering into the bar after they've spent all their cash and are looking for work. That's when they'll come walking into the bar with the worst name looking for a stranger in a dark corner hawking a map or some other bullshit that might offer them a chance for easy cash and an early grave. I was going to be that stranger in the corner if it meant that I would have to burn down every bar in town.
You see I had a plan that these fucking assholes wouldn't be looking for: I was going to kill all of them and take their stuff. I've been doing it for seven years with Sigmund Kathy, the Savage Minotaur of Ebony Plains. We hooked up back in '02 when Carlyle's Traveling Freak Show closed down after Carlyle got carved up by his boyfriend's wife.
Tragic, really. I swear it broke my heart for all of two whole minutes. I even shed a real tear at his funeral when they buried him with a solid gold watch. Of course Sigmund and I dug it up later that night . . .
Ah, but I'm getting distracted thinking about the past. It's too easy to do that when you're drinking sipping whiskey waiting on the inevitably belligerent dwarf, his mysterious - and obviously misunderstood - drow companion to come in through the door with their idiotic halfling trying to steal from anyone that isn't looking at her. Then as they talk to me about the quest I've got for them their leader, a charismatic and morally superior fighter, will barge into the conversation (uninvited I might add!) to throw a cold towel on the deal. They should really outlaw that sort of person from coming into town.
Have you ever wondered why no one looks at a waitress and tries to marry her?
Sitting here in the Unicorn Piss - I cannot explain to you how appropriate that name really is - I'm watching the two serving girls busy themselves about the bar and cannot stop watching Molly. She's a vision of beauty as she spins out of groping hands and performs her job with the sort of quiet competency that most people forget about. I want to walk over to her and ask her out. Perhaps we could go down to the river this weekend and watch the sunset as the cultists of the Old Ones drag their latest offering to the shores and drown them in their own blood?
Maybe she would like flowers?
They came in last night while I was in the pisser!
I had been drinking too much, trying to build up the courage to ask Molly to this weekend's Shrew Burning, and the necessary called. So up I went and in they came. They were sitting with Farmer Benoit talking in hushed tones about the spiders that have been eating up his sheep. Left before I could even get over to them with a better story!
No matter. Tonight after the bar closes down I'll help Benoit home and murder his whole family in their sleep. That should teach the dumb son of a bitch to fuck with my livelihood.
I got a letter in the post this morning from Sigmund. It seems that he's been having quite the time over at the abandoned silver mines. According to the post he's enslaved a tribe of goblins and two bands of gnolls. He's demanding that I call him Generalissimo Kathy "the Destroyer" Esquire.
I've no problem calling him Generalissimo, he's got a small army at his disposal now, but to imagine himself a lawyer? It's an outrage that that flea ridden, illiterate, cow fucking mongrel would put on such airs. Will he expect me to bow to him next?
That miserable couch lining is pushing his luck too far.
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