by Sam Ferguson
Simplin bellied up to the bar, accidentally brushing his shoulder on a hooded figure next to him. The man turned and grimaced, eyeing Simplin from head to toe, before turning away from him again. “Sorry,” Simplin offered quietly as he shifted to give the stranger a bit more room.
“He looks like a ranger,” Lucas said. “Look at his cloak, and the sword hanging out the side.”
“Shush,” Simplin instructed, but it was too late. The man turned around and shot a wary glance toward Lucas. He then pulled his cloak over his sword and put his back to them once again. “Let’s not make a nuisance of ourselves,” Simplin said.
The bar keep came toward them, but the stranger in the cloak stuck his arm out, stopping the pot-bellied man before Simplin could ask him about the dwarf.
“I seek halflings, have you seen any?” the man asked.
“Halflings?” the barkeep echoed with a shake of his bald head. “No, I haven’t. In fact, I’ve never seen a halfling here in my life, doubt if they’ll start showing up now.”
“But this is Bree, isn’t it?”
The barkeep shook his head. “No, this is Brie, with an “I”, you know, spelled like the cheese.”
The hooded figure grunted. “I came to the wrong town!” he snarled. “Curse that wizard. He should have been more specific.”
“It’s a common mistake,” the barkeep said. “No harm done.”
“If I don’t get to Bree in time, then much harm will be done,” the cloaked stranger said. “I must go.” The man rushed to the door and vanished into the night.
“Strange fellow,” Lucas said.
“And what are you two gentlemen looking for?” the barkeep asked.
“A dwarf chemist,” Simplin said.
“Ah, Finnigan,” the barkeep said with a smile. “He’ll be out in a moment. Why don’t you have a seat at one of the tables?”
Simplin and Lucas moved to a nearby table and were soon given tankards of ale.
At the table next to them sat a hawkish man with a long, arched nose and deathly gray eyes. He stared at Simplin for a moment, and then picked up a notebook and crossed something through. The man then set the book down and turned to look at a middle-aged man sitting across from him.
“I’m sorry, but if you don’t have the fee, then you can’t hire them. Might I suggest that you go and see the B-Team, or perhaps even the local adventurers’ guild? They always have some low-level fighter looking to make a name for himself. Normally they handle rat infestations and the like, but perhaps you could convince them to work on your project. As for Merc Work Inc., I couldn’t possibly agree to a contract that pays so little.”
Lucas perked up and started to turn around, but Simplin grabbed his arm. “Steady, Lucas, steady yourself. We’re here for the chemist. Then, we have a job to do. Getting yourself killed by attacking their bookie isn’t going to bring Liriel back.”
Lucas fumed, his face turning red and steam wafting up around his collar, but he eventually gave a single nod of agreement.
Simplin then looked back to the man sitting at the table with the bookie, and realized that there was another man with him.
“Come on, let’s go,” the second man said. “I don’t know why you were so bent on hiring these guys anyway. An off-brand group will work just as well.”
“Ah, but they won’t,” the bookie said as he interlaced his bony fingers on the table in front of him. “You see, Merc Work Inc. is not only the original mercenary guild in the land, they are the best. You see this book?” The bookie indicated the notebook with his chin. “This hold the records of their exploits. These pages detail their every conquest, and tally each dead mark, rescued princess, captured criminal, or toppled government.” The bookie then opened to a random page and pointed at it. “I also have endorsements and reviews from clients. Look here, five stars from an S. Holmes saying that without Merc Work Inc., numerous criminal plots would have devastated his homeland. And here,” the bookie said as he pointed to another line on the page. “Five stars for being the most ruthless mercenaries EVER!” The bookie sat back in his chair and shook his head while gesturing to the book. “And, you know because the reviewer put the word ‘ever’ in all caps that they really, really meant it.”
“What about this one star review here that says you failed miserably by Calpurnia?” the second man at the table asked.
“Oh, she knew we are always understaffed in March,” the bookie said. “That was nothing. If you continue to flip the pages you will see numerous five star reviews, some from top contributors even. We have a long and solid track record. So, gentlemen, what I am getting at is you can go out and buy the bargain mercenaries, or you can hire the professionals. We are the best, ever.”
“But your fees are too high!” the first man at the table said.
The bookie sighed and threw up his hands. “Who here has hired Merc Work Inc.?” he shouted.
The room fell silent and hands went up all around.
Simplin took a moment to survey the group, noting that only a few of the patrons weren’t raising their hands.
The bookie then smiled. “Leave your hands up if you are happy with our services.”
All of the hands stayed up, except for a short, bald-headed man. He glanced around nervously and started to lower his hand, but someone nearby elbowed him in the ribs quickly and his hand shot back up.
“And how many of you wish you could afford to hire Merc Work Inc.?” the bookie asked.
All the others that hadn’t had their hands up before put them up now.
“You see?” the bookie said. “That settles it. Everyone wants to hire us. So, either come up with the required fee, or go to the discount center and buy the knock-off brand. Your choice.” The bookie got up and exited the inn.
Slowly, the music and conversations picked back up
“That was interesting,” Simplin commented.
“I will kill all of them after this is over,” Lucas said.
“All in good time, Lucas, all in good time.”
“To Liriel,” Lucas said with a determined look on his face, raising his tankard.
Simplin nodded. “First, we take care of Skidmark the Brown, and then we get that potion,” the wizard said.
Just then someone pushed back from a nearby table, clutching his hands at his throat. The fat man stumbled to the floor, obviously choking. Another man rushed over from the same table and picked the fat man up, trying to get his hands around the man’s stomach.
“Come on, come on!” the smaller man kept shouting as he tried to squeeze the man’s stomach.
The barkeep approached and put a hand on Simplin’s shoulder. “Probably just a coincidence, Fat Joe always did take big bites, but still, perhaps let’s not mention that name again.”
Simplin rolled his eyes and raised the tankard to his mouth. “No one is so evil that simply mentioning their name can cause harm,” he said as he set the tankard back down.
The music stopped as the man trying to save Fat Joe collapsed to the floor, heaving for breath. Fat Joe reached out a hand, begging for help, but no one could seem to get their arms around him sufficiently to perform the maneuver properly.
“Aren’t you going to do something?” Lucas asked.
“Like what? Shall I shoot a fireball at him? I doubt that would do any good. My magic has always been rather… limited. I work with very basic spells.”
“How about a ball of air then? Hit his stomach and pop the piece of food from his throat? That would be worth a try.”
Simplin slapped the table. “Very well. Stand aside, all of you.” Fat Joe stood there, grabbing at his throat as tears welled in his eyes and everyone else backed away. “This might hurt a bit, but if it works, it will help dislodge the food. Shall I proceed?”
Fat Joe nodded quickly.
“Expel-i-foodus!” Simplin shouted with a wave of his right hand. The air molecules coalesced around his hand, and then shot out toward Fat Joe. A moment later, Fat Joe’s conside
rable girth was pushed inward, dented as the spell blasted into his bulbous stomach. The fat rippled like waves in a pool after tossing in a rock, and then Fat Joe left his feet and flew backward. People dove out of the way to avoid being crushed by the flailing behemoth just before Fat Joe crashed through a long table, sending shards of wood everywhere. Fortunately, the oversized hunk of meat dislodged from Fat Joe’s throat and arced through the air as well, much to the pleasure of the clapping audience.
“Thank you, thank you very much,” Simplin said with a curled upper lip. He then strutted back to the table and sat across from Lucas. “There. Took care of it.” He grabbed his drink and raised it up to polish it off.
A scream went up through the hall and Simplin paused, looking over the top of his tankard to see what was wrong.
Somehow, one of the flying chunks of wood flew to the opposite side of the room, and smacked right into the iron hook that anchored the iron chandelier in place. The rope exploded in a puff of brown dust as the hook snapped out of the wall and down came the iron chandelier. Fat Joe looked up just in time to see his impending doom before it cracked him in the face.
“Now that’s just bad luck right there,” Simplin said, slamming his tankard down on the table.
“You killed him,” Lucas gasped.
“No, I didn’t, it was a freak accident. How was I supposed to know that he’d shatter a table and one of the pieces would knock the chandelier loose?” Everyone stopped and stared back at Simplin. “What? I did my best, come on!”
The silence grew nearly unbearable as Simplin lifted his drink and finished it, trying to ignore the numerous sets of eyes now fixated on him. Then, just as he was about to try and turn everyone into toads, a door from the upper landing burst open.
“What’s all this?! I thought this was a party!”
Simplin looked up and saw a very stout looking dwarf leap over the bannister and down to one of the tables below. The wizard expected the furniture to break as it had with Fat Joe, but the dwarf landed solidly and started tap dancing across the top of it.
“Shouldn’t we have a wake for Fat Joe?” one of the men cried out.
“What’s a wake?” Lucas asked Simplin. The wizard opened his mouth to speak, but Finnigan got there first, sliding across their table on his side, head perched on his hand and a big, fat smile stretching across his bearded face. “What’s awake you ask?”
Lucas nodded and pulled his tankard back from the dwarf.
“Well, that’s when you’re not sleeping!”
A roar of laughter went up from the crowd.
“You think that’s good?” Finnigan shouted as he hopped up onto his feet. “Listen to this: a ham sandwich walked into a pub and orders an ale. The barkeep says, ‘Sorry, but we don’t serve food here!’”
Again the crowd laughed and clapped.
Simplin rubbed a hand over his eyes and looked up at Finnigan. “Excuse me sir, but are you all right?”
“All right?” Finnigan echoed, a somber expression forcing the smile from his face. The room got quiet and the dwarf turned to face Simplin. “Why no, in fact, I am half left!” Finnigan shouted while waggling the fingers on his left hand.
“What’s wrong with him?” Lucas asked.
“Nothing, I tell jokes. Wanna hear the one about the beavers?”
“Is it good?” Lucas asked.
“It’s the best dam joke I know!” Finnigan shouted.
Simplin slapped his face and shook his head. I think I might be ready for that smoking pipe.
“I have one more for you,” Finnigan said as he crouched down in front of Lucas.
“Don’t talk to him, Lucas, he’s mad.”
“Knock-knock,” Finnigan said eagerly, his eyes widening and his eyebrows shooting up and down with anticipation.
“Who’s there?” Lucas asked.
“Oh no,” Simplin said as he got up and walked away from the table.
“Banana,” the dwarf replied.
“Banana who?” Lucas asked.
“Knock knock!” Finnigan repeated.
“Who’s there,” Lucas said, louder this time.
“For the love of all that is right and holy,” Simplin muttered under his breath as he went back to the bar.
“This one’s a classic,” the barkeep said, wiping a tear from his eye.
“I can see why the Merry Mule decided to be a private club,” Simplin commented. “This is ridiculous.”
Finnigan repeated his knock knock phrase four more times, until Lucas stood up and grabbed the dwarf by the front of his shirt, much to the amusement of everyone in the room.
“Knock knock!” Finnigan said, barely able to keep from laughing.
“Who’s there?” Lucas demanded at the top of his lungs.
“Orange!”
“Orange who!?”
“Orange you glad I didn’t say banana again?”
The whole room erupted louder than all the previous times, several of the patrons were doubled over, gasping for air. Lucas stared at the silent dwarf for a minute, and then, finally getting the joke, he turned aside and blew out through his lips and started laughing.
“Let’s hear it for my wonderful volunteer!” Finnigan shouted. Everyone clapped and Lucas took a quick bow.
“So this is what passes for fun in Brie?” Simplin said with a shake of his head.
“This is great stuff! He’s the best comic in the whole region,” the barkeep put in.
“Pardon me,” someone called to Simplin from the side. The wizard turned and was stunned to see another dwarf that was almost identical to Finnigan. “Do the two of you require a room?”
“Not now,” the barkeep said. “Can’t you see they’re enjoying Finnigan’s routine?”
The dwarf looked over to Finnigan and nodded. “Sure, it’s hilarious,” he said monotone.
“You wouldn’t happen to be a chemist, would you?” Simplin asked.
The dwarf’s blue eyes began to twinkle and a genuine grin flashed across his face. “I am,” he said. “Most dwarves work with stone or armor, but me, I prefer a…finer, more delicate science.”
Simplin glanced back to Finnigan, who was busy asking what the difference was between a piano, a tuna fish, and a pot of glue.
“You can tune a piano but you can’t tuna fish!” Finnigan shouted.
“But what about the pot of glue?” Lucas asked.
“I thought you’d get stuck there!” Finnigan shouted.
“Oh, heavens, gets me every time,” the barkeep said as he wiped another tear from his eye and turned away to dry off a few mugs.
“He’s been sucked in, I’m afraid. I’ll never get him back now,” Simplin commented. He sighed and turned back to the dwarf in front of him. “You wouldn’t happen to have a resurrection potion, would you?” Simplin asked.
The dwarf scowled and took a step back, his right hand hovering dangerously over a long, curved knife hanging from his belt. “How would you know about that?”
Just then, Finnigan leapt from the nearest table, flipped in the air, and landed on the bar. “Everyone look! It’s my twin brother! Quick, stranger with the pointy hat, what’s my brother’s name?”
“I don’t know,” Simplin said in a huff. “If you don’t mind, I’m trying to have a discussion with him.”
“His name is Mulligan, but do you know why that’s his name?”
Simplin tried to ignore Finnigan, but the dwarf reached down and grabbed his shoulders with strong, vice-like hands. “Well, do you know?”
A tall man from the band began a drum roll on the far side of the room while everyone waited for Simplin’s answer.
“No, I don’t,” Simplin replied, eager to have Finnigan out of his face.
“Because, he’s the older brother, you see. When he popped out, Pa and Ma took one look at him and decided to have a do-over!”
Ba-dum-tiss!
“Ha-ha,” Simplin said as he pushed Finnigan back to the bar.
“What’s the
matter, don’t get it? It’s a golf term, it means –”
Simplin held up his finger and a fireball roared to life. “I have a joke for you,” he said. “Why don’t you make like a tree, and leaf,” Simplin said.
Finnigan laughed. “Ha- that’s a good one, make like a tree and—” Simplin’s fireball doubled in size. “Oh! Got it!” Finnigan jumped back behind the bar and then made his way out to the room, leaving Simplin and Mulligan to themselves. “Well, what are we waiting for, let’s DAAAAANCE!” Finnigan roared. The band struck up again and soon the tables were all cleared and everyone in the Dancing Donkey began boogying around Fat Joe’s broken body.
“You’re a wizard, eh?” Mulligan asked.
Simplin nodded. “I’ve come to ask for your help. You see, we’re on a quest to slay Ski—”
The barkeep leapt across the bar and slapped Simplin’s mouth. “I told you, don’t say that name again!”
Mulligan frowned, and then realization dawned on him and a big, toothy grin spread across his face. “You’re after the one who can’t be named!”
Simplin nodded his head and rubbed his face. “We are.”
“And you have the artifacts you need to defeat him?”
Simplin shook his head. “Not yet, we had to take a detour through Spider Woods.”
“Ugh,” Mulligan said. “Why do these quests always have to start with giant spiders, or rats?”
“Easy low-level baddies that help develop the hero, or so I have been told,” Simplin replied.
“True,” Mulligan commented. “Anyway, back to our discussion. I am not after he who must not be named, but I am after his right-hand man.”
“Who is that?” Simplin asked.
“You haven’t heard of the ten-fingered man?” Mulligan asked, his mouth hanging open in shock.
Simplin frowned. “We all have ten fingers,” he said, holding up his hands.
Mulligan shook his head twice. “No, you have eight fingers and two thumbs,” Mulligan lifted the four fingers on each hand for emphasis, and then gave a double thumbs up, “for a total of ten digits. The man I seek has ten fingers and two thumbs, for a total of twelve digits.”
