Frank didn’t want no Trouble. Thing is, Trouble had a way of tracking him down, taking his lunch money and shoving his head into the proverbial (or in some cases quite literal) toilet bowl. It had been like this ever since Frank could remember. Which is why he wound up here, in the very armpit of nowhere, tending bar in what can only be described as a glorified favela in the sorriest excuse for a village you’ve ever seen. It was too small and insignificant to even warrant a name, and the locals (of which there was a grand total of 36) simply referred to it as “The Town.” Which was generous at that.
He had seen more than his fair share of Trouble and knew it was just a matter of time until it tracked him down again.
Well, tonight appeared to be the night.
Frank could feel it in the air as a shadow fell over the stained glass in the front door of the bar and completely blocked moonlight light from entering the room. It was obviously not a human shadow. Way too big for that. Frank had a second to consider diving out of sight underneath the bar, but he’d been here before. When Trouble came a-knockin, there was no use pretending not to be home. Trouble would break the door down with a battering ram and drag him out, kicking and screaming. There was no avoiding it.
The room was filled with the usual crowd, humans, gnomes, goblins and orcs sitting mostly silent, sipping their drinks in peace. Bobby O’Mally was playing his guitar in the corner, and singing one of his numbers, Under The Killing Tree.
My baby’s always loved me, as I loved she
Until I took my baby down to the killing tree
What is it with human singers, Frank thought? Why all the death and murder? Can’t we ever just sing about candy and nice weather?
When the door swung open, the guitar went silent and the room went from quiet to devoid of all sound. In the doorway Frank saw a belly. Looking closer he saw two legs sticking down from the belly. He was fairly certain there was more to the individual standing outside, but he was too big to fit in the doorway.
With a grunt, the stranger ducked down and scrambled through the entrance. It was a big ogre, and he just barely managed to squeeze in. When he cleared the doorway he tried to stand up, but the ceiling was just a little bit too low, so he had to stoop.
Frank swallowed and took the ogre in. He always tried his best not to be prejudiced, god knew he’d been the victim of racism plenty of times, as most humans had, but he couldn’t help being slightly scared of ogres. Looking at this one, with his leather vest and bulging belly, the large rimmed hat and absolutely enormous revolvers on each hip, he had a very hard time keeping an open mind about the species.
“Can I h-help you?” he managed.
The ogre looked around the room. Everyone present stared at him.
“Lookin for a lady,” the ogre boomed.
“Not sure I can help you there, buddy,” said Frank and tried his hardest to smile.
“Lianna de Marcan,” the ogre said and Frank wasn’t sure if that was a name or some sort of ogre dialect he was unfamiliar with. The ogre kept glaring around the room.
“Listen,” said Frank, painfully aware of the fact that he was a very small human addressing an ogre armed to the sharp and quite large teeth. “We don’t want no trouble.”
And yet Trouble was here, yet again. Frank found himself thinking about his next move. He might jump a freight train and seek out a dwarfish mine to work in.
