His guildmates nod.
“Anyfickin’hoo, I want you two to get us a room at the Mondegreen before you get to snooping. Got it? Secure our resting place first, then start sniffing around.”
“Why don’t we get the room before we go to Bar Row?”
“Good question, Liz.” Hiccup scratches his ass. “I have a better idea. Why don’t we paint big red targets on our foreheads and walk around in our underpants while announcing to everyone that we’re new in town?”
FeeTwix comes to her defense. “Last I recall, you don’t wear underwear.”
“Too much chafing, especially on a long journey like this. I prefer an extra-husky asbestos jockstrap if the occasion calls for it, but otherwise, go commando, Joe. Dammit! Your commentaries are throwing me off track. Focus, people, focus. Back to the plan: so the Lizard Queen and Marble Nuts – okay, those nicknames won’t work, I’ll keep at it though – book us a room at the Mondegreen and after that, they do a little sneak and peek while Twixy and the most follicularily-enhanced goblin this side of Jatla line our coffers. Of course, we can communicate with each other over the messaging system, so if you do run into trouble, holler at us.”
“Same to you,” Zaena says.
“Good. So that’s the plan. Don’t fick it up, people. Let’s go! It should take us about thirty minutes to get there.”
(0)__(0)
The four Mitherfickers pause at a fork in the road. The path on the right leads to the back entrance of the Guild District; the not-right fork loops around the district and conveniently takes the foot-weary traveler dead-bang to the heart of Bar Row.
“This way, Mitherfickers!” Hiccup valiantly holds his pointer finger in the air. FeeTwix laughs, and shares the goblin’s pose with his followers.
“I swear, Hiccup, you are becoming the most popular member in our guild! I may have you do an ad read soon.”
Hiccup’s eyes practically flash rupee signs. He lowers his finger, slows his pace, and starts speaking to FeeTwix in a low voice about compensation. Zaena stays at the back of the group, silently humming a Thulean tune that Ryuk can’t quite place.
As they take the left path, a medium-sized dragon soars overhead, carrying in its claws a large crate with the EBAYmazon logo seared into the wood. Many of the scales on the beast’s underside have been plucked out, a tell-tale sign that it’s a rescue dragon.
Ryuk watches it pass with his hand on his marble gun just in case.
Before leaving, Dory gave him a gunsyakhai land dragon leather gun belt and holster. There’s a fresh magazine of black marbles in his weapon, and as they continue to walk, Ryuk loads up another magazine full of clear marbles.
The magazines are fairly easy to load. Just pop the marbles in until you have eight. With five magazines, he’ll have to keep at least two with alternating knife marble and black marble combinations. He has also kept his magic slingshot, which hangs from its original holster over his left thigh, just in case a situation calls for it.
Once the magazine is loaded with marbles, it is relatively simple to load and unload it into the weapon. To load, simply stick it in the back and pop it in until it clicks. To unload, press the magazine release that’s located just above the base of the magazine and it pops itself out. He’ll get used to it, and in the future, he should be able to do it very quickly.
The future. Tomorrow he will know how his affairs stand. Tamana is what this journey has been about since the start. Ryuk realizes that there are bigger forces in motion, and soon he’ll have to confront these forces. The ultimate quest. For now the battle takes place in Tritania, but if things go badly it could spread to the real world.
Bar Row is much more impressive than Ryuk remembers it being. In the shadows of the Aramis Towers – the dozen or so dragonscrapers that make up the financial and trading district – Bar Row is a series of high-priced pubs, dirty dive bars, and narcotized nightclubs set along a horseshoe shaped road.
“Where to start, where to start?” Hiccup asks. “He’ll do!” The goblin strolls over to a drunken NPC scout passed out against an overfilled rubbish bin. “Hey, buddy.” He gives the drunk a soft kick. The drunk grumbles, falls to his side, wipes saliva from his lips. He pulls his knees to his chest, leaving one hand with exposed fingers on the dirt. “You don’t happen to have a glass of cold water in your list, do you?” Hiccup asks FeeTwix.
“Nope.”
“Well shit.”
“I can stand him up with my konoshlo,” Zaena offers.
“He’ll just fall down again. Don’t worry, I’ll handle this.” Hiccup drives the heel of his boot down onto the drunk’s fingers and Ryuk cringes at the snap and crackle.
FeeTwix’s eyes flash blue. “Crap, Hiccup! Warn me next time before you do something like that! I got viewers that are very anti-torture.”
“Well, the fickin’ delicate little pussy willows may want to retreat to their safe places for the next little while then, ‘cause that’s how the Mitherfickers roll!” Hiccup turns to Ryuk. “You said we’re doing this my way, right?”
“Right.” Ryuk drops his hand to the grip of his marble gun. One glance around and he relaxes his grip – not a single digital soul seems to give two shits that a goblin is engaged in active felonious assault on a drunk, not even the Aramis Security Force officer less than twenty meters away.
The female officer wears black armor, an elaborate belt with pockets and cuffs of varying size attached, as well as knee-high combat boots with a single spike at the foot. A large crossbow is strapped to her back and a short sword sheathed at her side. The officer turns to them, sees what’s going on, and turns back to her post.
“Why’d you do it!?” the drunken scout cries out. “Those were my … my favorite fingers!”
“Wah wah wah, look buddy, now that I have your attention, I have a question I’d like to ask you.”
“Fuck you and your questions, you filthy goblin!”
“That’s Mr. Filthy Goblin and it’s an easy question.”
“Kiss my inebriated ass!”
Ryuk: This is getting out of hand.
FeeTwix: That’s one way to put it!
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 p
latter 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.”
“You got it,” the bartender says.
FeeTwix: Drorikh?
Ryuk: Fermented dragon’s milk.
Zaena: I grew up drinking this stuff! I hope it is as good down here as it is in Ultima Thule.
“A shot for you too, pal,” Hiccup tells the bartender. “You got a name?”
“Cid. Howzabout you, big spender?”
“Me? Yeah – the name is, um, Hoquet.”
“That’s nice, Umhoquet. And your friends?” The old bartender pulls out a glass jug with a milky substance inside.
“This here is Marbles, Liz, and Swede.”
“Not Ummarbles, Umliz, and Umswede? Sounds to me like a bunch of fake names some asshole would make up,” Cid snorts as he pours out a shot. “But a name’s a name, and I’ll call you whatever you want as long as you pay your tab.”
“That’s us, just a bunch of noobs with fake-sounding but otherwise completely authentic and not-at-all skeevy names who always pay our tabs. Always. Marbles, make yourself useful and start passing out shots.”
Ryuk begrudgingly waits for Cid to pour out several shots of drorikh and place them on a tray. He takes them to a booth of barbarians in the far corner. “From the goblin at the bar,” he tells the suspicious lot.
He returns just in time for the next round to finish being poured. These he takes to the other booth, a booth of druids. FeeTwix takes shots to the bards at the center table and Cid finishes pouring shots for those seated at the bar.
Hiccup stands up on the seat of his bar stool again and raises his shot glass.
“To Empress Thun and the Sage of Gotha!
To Porthos, Aramis, and Athos by way of a flying ship!
To the bottom of the Endless Sea, the top of the clouds, to the frost of Ultima Thule,
To the griffins of Polynya, and the vast fields of Hyperborea!
Aye! Aye! Aye!”
Everyone in the bar raises their shot glass in one hand and beats on the table with other. “Aye! Aye! Aye!”
The drorikh is sour, like the Yakult probiotic drinks they sell at the 7-Elevens in Japan, and Ryuk cri
nges as it sears its way down his throat. His vision pane flashes to let him know that alcohol could impair his ability to fight, shoot, or run away.
As soon as the shots are finished, one of the Barbarians stands and throws his shot glass to the floor, smashing it into pieces. “Another round!” he announces to the cheers of his compadres.
Cid is two steps ahead. He already has ten shots poured and his working on the next five by the time Ryuk gets to the first tray. Zaena helps him this time, and the two dish out shots until everyone in the bar has one.
The gruff and thickly bearded Barbarian turns a stray chair towards him and places his heavily furred boot upon it. He clears his throat, and in a surprisingly cultured and well-modulated voice, recites:
“Twas the night ‘fore a battle and all through the camp,
The men were scared shitless, the quarters were cramped!”
Others begin to chuckle at the popular poem, including Hiccup and Zaena. The barbarian continues:
“Death road his horse through the black of the night,
He arrived in the morning and gave them a fright!
Had the men had their balls and not shit for brains,
We’d be toasting to them, rather than to death’s name!
Here’s to thee, Death, to thee, to thee!
For shitting on shitbirds like you and me!
For equally treating the rich and the poor,
For taking our lives and evening the scores!
Death comes to all who are bless-ed to breathe!
To him, and to her, and to you, and to me!
Aye! Aye! Aye!”
“Aye! Aye! Aye!”
Everyone takes a shot and one of the bards flicks his shot glass to the floor, shattering it to pieces. The stocky bard stands and sings the words, “Rounds for everyone!”
Fantasy Online_Hyperborea Page 20
