by Robert Bevan
“That's the one.”
“You'd do well to steer clear of that place, friend.”
“What's wrong?” asked Chaz. “Is that a gay bar or something?”
“Glittersprinkles Grove is no pub.” Fallon's face was dead serious for someone who'd just said the word Glittersprinkles twice in less than a minute. “Best come have that drink, friends. I've a tale you'll want to hear as well.”
Cooper supposed it couldn't hurt to learn something about this place before they went there.
I am from Glittersprinkles Grove. What can you hope to learn from some tomato farmer that I cannot tell you myself?
Nabi made a good point, but there was still the matter of feeding Chaz. They had a long walk ahead of them, and Chaz would need his strength.
Very well. One drink. Hear this fool's story, then we shall be on our way.
The villagers eyed Cooper and Chaz curiously as Fallon led them down Totino's main street, but Cooper sensed no animosity from them. This place had a friendlier vibe than the village they'd entered the desert through. It was amazing how much of a difference a lack of cultists and slave-laborers made.
The last building on the street, which would be the first for anyone entering the village by the conventional way, was by far the most prominent. It boasted a large sign which Cooper couldn't read, but assumed identified it as the Frothy Tankard, the tavern where Fallon had suggested they enjoy a drink together.
Ravenus squawked something as he and Fallon's hawk perched atop the sign.
“Fine,” said Chaz. “But don't go far. We aren't going to be here that long.”
With an excited screech, Ravenus and the hawk flew up over the roof and out of sight.
The inside of the tavern was dimly lit and quiet, with only a few older patrons nursing beers as they stared outside through the windows. Fallon ushered Cooper and Chaz to a booth, the seats of which looked to have been upholstered with the same kind of tomato skin that Fallon's gloves were made of. Clean and shiny as it was, Cooper almost felt bad for smearing his ass all over it.
“Getting an early start then, are we?” said a jovial plump half-elven woman approaching their booth. Her rosy red cheeks made her look like she had a tomato for a head.
“Good day, Evie,” said Fallon. “A round of beers for me and my new friends, if you will.”
Evie set down a bowl of what looked like dehydrated shark teeth. “And where are you fine folks stopping in from?”
“They came in from the desert. Claim to have escaped from the Crescent Shadow.”
“Oh, how exciting!”
“Not so much escaped,” said Chaz. “It was more like we fell off, and –”
“That's not all,” said Fallon. “You'll never guess where they plan to go from here.”
“If they stay with you, they're like to wind up asleep in the desert with their pants 'round their ankles, pecker-deep in tomatoes.”
Fallon glared at her. “That happened one time.” He looked across the table to Chaz and Cooper. “I was really drunk, and coming out of a bad relationship.”
Cooper cleared his throat. “So... How was it? My interest is purely acedemical, you understand.”
“I don't know. I fell asleep before I really got going. The acid burns, though. It took me weeks to recover.”
Cooper and Chaz winced.
“So what'll you have?” asked Evie.
Fallon glanced at Cooper and Chaz, but didn't bother waiting for their input. “Beers for starters.”
“Red or white?”
“White!” said Chaz.
“Dude,” Cooper muttered under his breath. “Take it down a notch, Goebbels.”
Fallon picked up one of the toothy things from the bowl and threw it at Chaz's head. “Where's your sense of adventure? You survive a fall from the Crescent Shadow, but you're afraid to try tomato beer?”
“Oh,” said Cooper. “In that case, I'll have white as well. No offense, man, but that sounds disgusting.”
“How about this?” said Fallon. “I'll buy the first round. If you don't like it, I'll drink all three.”
Cooper nodded. That sounded fair.
“Wait a minute,” said Chaz. “That's not really buying the first round, is it? That's just you buying yourself three beers while we –”
“Three reds, Evie.”
Evie grinned cheerfully. “Coming right up.” She was gone before Chaz had a chance to object.
Chaz picked up the toothy thing that had bounced off his head and landed on the table. “What are these?”
“Tomato seeds,” said Fallon.
“Of course they are.” Chaz tossed it back into the bowl.
“Dried and salted.” Fallon picked one out of the bowl and popped it into his mouth. It crunched like a potato chip. “Try one. They're really good.”
Chaz's stomach grumbled loud enough for the whole table to hear.
“Fine.” He put a seed in his mouth and crunched down on it. His eyes lit up. “These are good. They don't taste like tomatoes at all.”
Cooper grabbed a handful and shoved them in his mouth. They tasted like Sun Chips, but had kind of a papery texture. By the time Cooper swallowed, Chaz had devoured the rest of the bowl.
“Sorry,” he said with a mouthful of seeds. “I was starving.” After he swallowed, he licked his lips. “They sure are salty.”
Fallon grinned. “Makes the beer go down easier.”
“Maybe if you didn't make your beer out of goddamn tomatoes, you wouldn't need extra motivation to drink it.”
“Believe me. You don't want to die before you taste tomato beer.”
“That's true,” said Chaz. “But I'm worried that I might want to die afterward.”
“Then drink up, friend. You're headed to the right place.”
“What's all this talk about dying?” asked Evie as she approached the table again, this time with a tray. She set three large glasses of murky red liquid. It looked like someone had drunk Bloody Marys and thrown them up back into the glasses.
Fallon sneered up at Evie. “If you'd have listened to what I was saying earlier instead of bringing up that incident from three years ago, you'd have known that these two are planning a little expedition into Glittersprinkles Grove.”
Evie gasped, then scowled down at Cooper and Chaz. “Are you out of your fool minds?”
Cooper sipped his beer. It wasn't bad. There was a hint of tomato in it, but the alcohol content more than made up for it. Cooper guessed it to be around ten percent. He ignored the taste and gulped back the rest of the glass.
“The whole forest has been cleared of life,” said Fallon. “Only shadows remain, living in eternal anguish beyond the grave and seeking to drain the life out of any who are bold or stupid enough to –”
A loud cavernous belch erupted from deep within Cooper's stomach. He held up his empty glass.
“Can I get one more of these, and maybe another bowl of seeds?”
It had been a few days since Cooper had last drunk anything, and the tomato beer caught up to him pretty quickly. Outside of the persistent feeling of annoyance in the back of his mind where Nabi was sulking, the evening was a blur. He remembered switching from beer to a stronger tomato-derived liquor at one point, and possibly throwing up on Evie's tits, but that was around where reality and dream started to mingle.
Chapter 8
When they approached Cardinia's western gate, Randy was worried they'd have a repeat of the commotion they'd had at Minswater. But he was pleasantly surprised to find that the Cardinian guards had protocol for dealing with what they referred to as Unusual and Potentially Dangerous Mounts. It was a simple matter of paying five times the standard rate to board a horse, which Randy was happy to do.
“Let's stop at a tavern,” said Denise. “I need somethin' in my belly aside from piss fruit and fuckin' scorpion babies.”
Randy checked with Katherine. She was the one who had the most pressing business to contend with.
“It'
s cool,” said Katherine. “I'm starving, and Tim's not going anywhere.”
It was between lunch and dinner rushes, so the taverns along the street leading to the Temple of Life weren't very crowded.
“Looks like we got a lot of choices,” said Randy. “What y'all in the mood for?”
Katherine grimaced as she looked up and down the street. “All these places look like they serve stray cat. You guys can choose.”
Denise stopped in front of a shop and looked up at the sign. “This one looks good.”
“The Stinky Pickle?” said Katherine. “That's the last decision I ever put you in charge of making.”
“You're the one who said one place was as good as another.” Denise frowned. “I don't even like pickles, but I got this sudden craving. Must be these little freaks inside me.” She rubbed her belly and looked up at the sign. “Besides, I'm sure the name is ironic.”
When Randy opened the door and stepped inside, it didn't smell ironic. The powerful odor of pickled meats and fermented vegetables wasn't exactly unpleasant, but wow. Randy's sinuses had never felt so clear.
The place was set up like a bar. But instead of liquor bottles on the shelves, there were jars of everything imaginable that could swim in vinegar or brine. Eggs, cucumbers, beets, strips of meat, leafy vegetables, an assortment of animal parts, and things that Randy couldn't identify.
“Greetings!” said a huge man emerging from the back room. He wore a blood-smeared leather apron and had a meat cleaver at the end of his left arm where a hand would normally be. “Welcome to the Stinky Pickle. My name is Grimmond. What can I get for you?”
Randy looked at Katherine. Her eyes said, “We should get the fuck out of here right now.” Randy agreed.
Grimmond wiped his cleaver hand onto his apron, adding a fresh streak of red to an already impressive collection. “You're so quiet. What troubles you? Mayhap a manticore pulled out your tongues?” He gestured to a particular jar on one of the shelves behind the bar. “I have replacements right here.” He laughed heartily at his own joke. The jar he'd indicated did appear to be full of tongues. Randy hoped they hadn't come from previous customers.
“I need one of those,” said Denise, pointing to a jar of pigs' feet. She kept her finger raised to point out her other selections. “A scoop of that, three of whatever those are, that whole goddamn jar, and a big-ass mug of beer.”
“Very good, Miss.”
“Denise!” said Randy, distracted from his terror. “You're pregnant. You can't drink.”
“The fuck I can't.”
“Congratulations,” said Grimmond. “Might I suggest a mug of Dark Iron Brew? It's popular among women who are expecting. It will help to replenish the iron in your blood.” He winked at Denise. “And it should take the edge off a bit as well.”
Denise nodded. “Sounds good. Give it to me, Chopper.”
Katherine gave Denise a stern glare.
Grimmond laughed. “Fear not, young lady. I've been called worse.” He held up his cleaver. “If not for this, I would never have gotten into this business, and perhaps never have discovered my love and talent for pickling foods at all.”
Randy felt a little less terrified after hearing that. “That's real nice. It's good that you turned a disability into an advantage like that.” He nudged Denise. “We all might learn a little something from that.”
“Aye,” said Grimmond, staring at his disfigurement. “Would you believe that this is the very cleaver which took my hand so many years ago?”
After an awkward moment of silence, Randy, Denise, and Katherine nodded. Randy couldn't think of any reason Grimmond would lie about that, and felt no inclination to ask him to provide evidence.
Grimmond turned to a large jar at the end of the bar. “And that's the head of the man who wielded it.”
Katherine yelped, like she was trying to scream and gasp at the same time. There was indeed a human head staring back at them from inside a jar of pale brown liquid which was barely large enough to contain it. It's eyes were bulged out. The nose was pressed up against the glass, showing off nostrils full of coarse, perfectly preserved hair. The lips were pressed open, displaying the late man's half-rotted teeth. It looked bigger than a human head should. Maybe it was a giant, or maybe it had just bloated over years of being pickled. Randy might have asked, but he had a more immediate question he needed answered.
“You don't... um... serve that, do you?”
Grimmond laughed heartily again. “Of course not!” He sighed. “I just like to have it there to look at.”
“I hear you, man,” said Denise. “If it weren't for all them pussy liberals and their bullshit laws, I'd do the same thing with the heads of my enemies back home.”
“And what will you two be having?” Grimmond asked Katherine and Randy.
“Um...” Katherine frantically scanned the jars, then pointed to one close to her. “Are those eggs?”
“Indeed they are.”
“From chickens?”
“Those are goose eggs, Miss.”
“That's fine. One of those please.”
“I'll have the same,” said Randy.
“Will that be all?”
Randy and Katherine nodded vigorously.
“Anything to drink?”
Randy and Katherine shook their heads just as vigorously. Randy, for one, didn't want anything from this place that he couldn't see where it came from. Heck, he didn't even want that egg he'd just ordered. But he also didn't want to insult this gentleman, lest his head become a pickled decoration on one of these shelves.
“Very well,” said Grimmond. “Please have a seat and I'll return shortly with your food.”
“Oh, one more thing,” said Katherine as he turned toward the kitchen.
“Yes?”
“Could I buy an empty jar here?” She pointed to a medium sized jar of what looked like small pickled onions. “That size should do.”
Grimmond nodded. “Of course.”
He returned in a few minutes with two eggs, a tray full of Denise's mystery foods, a dwarf-worthy mug of dark beer, an empty jar, and a bowl of chopped raw meat, fresh and bloody, which Randy was relieved to see placed on the floor in front of Butterbean.
Grimmond smiled at Katherine. “Your friend looked hungry, too. That's on the house.”
Butterbean went at the meat like he hadn't eaten in a week.
“I guess he is,” said Katherine. “Thank you.”
Randy found his egg surprisingly delicious. It shouldn't have been a surprise, as Grimmond was clearly well-practiced in his art. He also found that he was hungrier than he'd thought. Katherine seemed to have similar revelations. While neither was brave enough to take a chance on any of the other food on display, they ended up ordering and devouring eight more eggs between the two of them.
Denise cleaned her plate, washing it all down with Dark Iron Brew.
“That's some good shit,” said Denise, rubbing her belly.
Grimmond beamed. “Thank you. It's fortified with my wife's own blood.”
Randy and Katherine gasped.
Denise merely raised her eyebrows. “Goddamn, man. What happened? You catch her in bed with an orc or some shit?”
Grimmond's brow furrowed as he stared at Denise. He looked at his cleaver hand, and his eyes lit up with understanding. “Oh dear, you thought...” He burst into yet another fit of hearty laughter. “I could never cause my dear wife harm! I speak of the blood which flows naturally with the cycles of the moon.”
Denise swallowed hard. Her face turned pale. Her eyes turned to Katherine's empty jar.
“Oh shit,” said Katherine. She sprang to her feet and brought the Bag of Holding down quickly over Denise's head.
Denise made no attempt to resist. Grabbing the edge of the table with both hands, her body shuddered once, twice, a third time.
“Is she not well?” asked Grimmond, genuine concern in his voice. “I can assure you all of the food here is prepared with great care.
I use only the highest quality ingredients and time-honored pickling techniques.”
“Oh, it's nothing like that,” said Katherine. “She's just got a mild case of... asthma. She'll be fine.”
After Denise's body had calmed down for a few seconds, she tapped the table twice with her left hand, then gave Katherine a thumbs up.
Katherine started to lift the bag, but Denise grabbed her wrist and pulled it back down, then shuddered heavily one more time. Half a minute later, she gave the thumbs up again.
Katherine pulled the bag off. “Feeling better?”
Denise nodded, her eyes glistening and weary. “Much, thank you.” She turned back to the bar. “Can I get a few of them eggs boxed up to go? I got a feelin' I'll be hungry again real soon.”
Grimmond smiled. “As you wish.”
While Grimmond prepared Denise's take-out order, Katherine sat back down and opened her empty jar. She bunched up the mouth of the Bag of Holding and inserted it into the mouth of the jar, leaving enough space for one finger to slip into the bag.
“What kind of creature was that big dinosaur thing we came here with?” she asked Randy.
“He's a basilisk,” said Randy. “That's why I named him Basil.”
“Clever.” Katherine looked back down at the Bag of Holding. “Basilisk shit.”
When it started flowing out of the bag, Katherine jerked her finger away. The shit looked like greyish-brown toothpaste and quickly filled the jar about three-quarters full before it stopped flowing.
Grimmond stopped preparing the eggs, distracted by Katherine filling a jar with shit in his restaurant.
“I hate to be critical,” he said. “But I'm noticing some flaws in your pickling technique. If you'd like to work here as an apprentice, perhaps we can –”
“I'm sorry,” said Katherine. “That was disgusting. I just didn't want to dump a load of animal shit on an altar at the Temple of Life. I thought it would be more presentable this way. Do you have a moist towelette?”
Instead of chopping them all up and stuffing them into jars as Randy expected, Grimmond smiled.
“You're going to the Temple of Life, are you?” He hurriedly finished Denise's to-go box and took a small jar down from a shelf. It was stuffed with what looked like skinny carrots and soggy strips of leather, soaked in a red liquid. “Would you mind seeing that this gets to Brother Mayfair?”
