With a dull thudthat resonated through the worn wood, Michael was unceremoniously deposited onto the most prominent and ornate stool before the bar. The minotaur bouncer who had maneuvered him there threw back his horned head and bellowed over the din, his voice a grating roar that cut through the music and laughter.
"Old Gimpy! Fetch the finest ale and fare for our esteemed guest! And where the blazes are you, Jaunysmoke? Get your pretty self over here! Your only task tonight is to ensure this boss's delight!"
From a shadowy alcove, a voice dripping with saccharine sweetness slithered out in reply. "Keep your hide on, you wretched beast. Can't a lady freshen up?" it purred.
Then she emerged. A vision of improbable curves and golden hair, styled into a parody of a rabbit, swayed towards the bar. Her waist was impossibly slender, a stark contrast to the spectacular, jostling abundance above it. As she moved, a wave of cloying, floral perfume hit Michael, mixing nauseatingly with the smells of smoke and sweat. One glance at her, and Michael understood the name 'Jaunysmoke' perfectly. His mouth, already dry from the night's excesses, felt like it was stuffed with ash. His head, still foggy, began to swim in rhythm with her approach.
"Welcome to the Honey and the Maiden, boss," she cooed, arriving at his side. Before Michael could process her words, she committed an act of breathtaking audacity. Her pale, smooth arms snaked around his neck, and her hands, cool and firm, pressed against the back of his head, pulling him forward into the deep, perfumed valley of her cleavage. The world narrowed to scent, stifling softness, and stunned bewilderment. So forward… so… foreign, he thought dizzily, a part of him thrilled despite the overwhelming strangeness.
When he finally resurfaced, gasping slightly, the bar top before him was laden. A tankard of murky liquid topped with greyish-brown foam sat beside several clay plates heaped with unidentifiable, dark lumps of food. The weak, guttering light from the oil lamps refused to reveal any details, leaving the dishes a mystery of textures and shadows. In that moment, with the warm, clinging pressure of the rabbit-girl against his side, the nature of the food and drink seemed the least of his concerns.
As Michael stared at the dubious feast, the bartender—a wizened, desiccated white man the bouncer had called 'Old Gimpy'—was studying him. Unlike the others, the old man wore no costume, but his face was a grotesque mask of ingrained avarice and cunning, which was a kind of disguise in itself. His eyes, like two black pebbles, gleamed as they took in Michael's peculiar paper wrappings.
When Michael's gaze finally drifted from Jaunysmoke to the plates, Old Gimpy leaned forward, a smile splitting his wrinkled face that was all false bonhomie. "House rules, boss," he rasped, his voice like gravel. "Payment upfront, if you please. This lot comes to thirty bottle caps, or three silver bits." He paused, his eyes flicking meaningfully to Michael's torso. "Or… if you're paying in paper, ten squares'll do the trick."
Michael's mind, which had been sluggishly paddling in a sea of confusion, nearly capsized. Bottle caps? Silver? Paper money?But then his eyes followed the old man's gaze to the toilet paper wrapped around his chest. A hysterical laugh bubbled in his throat. They wanted to be paid in toilet paper?The absurdity of it was so profound it momentarily eclipsed his fear. It all crystallized then. This had to be some incredibly immersive, dedicated role-playing den for expats. Foreigners really take their games seriously, he thought, a reckless giddiness replacing his panic. If they want a performance, I'll give them one they won't forget.
"Fine. You wanna play? Let's play," he muttered to himself, the alcohol fueling a surge of bravado. With a flourish that made his paper armor crinkle, he ripped off a generous length—fifteen, maybe sixteen squares—and slapped it onto the sticky bar. "Keep the change," he announced, imbuing his voice with a careless magnanimity he did not feel.
The transformation in Old Gimpy was instantaneous and profound. He bowed so low his nose nearly touched the bar, his spine creaking audibly. When he straightened, his face was a picture of servile delight, the unctuous smile of a courtier granted a royal boon. With trembling, reverent hands, he opened a hidden compartment beneath the bar and carefully, tenderly, laid the strip of paper inside, as if storing a holy relic.
Emboldened, Michael tore two more strips, each about five squares long, and tossed them to the hulking minotaur guards. Their reaction was masterful, a study in performed gratitude. They clutched the paper to their massive, barrel chests, nodding with deep, solemn appreciation, their tough-guy personas utterly dissolved.
Then, turning to Jaunysmoke, who was watching with amused, heavy-lidded eyes, he produced the longest strip yet. Without ceremony, he tucked it into the deep crevice of her décolletage. The effect was electric. She let out a squeal of delight, wrapped her arms around his head again, and planted a series of wet, enthusiastic kisses on his face and neck.
The intoxicating power of this bizarre currency went to his head. He was no longer Michael the hungover salesmen; he was a mogul, a king of this strange cardboard realm. He wrestled free from Jaunysmoke's embrace, tore off a truly prodigious length of paper, and slammed it onto the bar with a triumphant crack.
"A round for the house!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the noise. "The best you have, for everyone! On me!"
For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then the bar erupted. A roaring cheer went up, a cacophony of thumped tables and stomping feet. Voices, rough and gleeful, called out blessings in a dozen different accents. "To the generous human boss!" "May your coffers overflow with caps!" The air, already thick, grew warmer with sudden, communal goodwill.
Later, Michael lifted the heavy tankard to his lips and took a large, unthinking gulp. The liquid that hit his tongue was a vile concoction—a sour, pungent brew that tasted of burnt grain, motor oil, and something unnervingly metallic. It was like swallowing ditchwater spiked with cheap vodka. He barely kept from retching. The food, however, those unidentifiable black lumps, proved a surprise. Despite their ominous appearance, they were savory and rich, with a gamey, smoky flavor that filled his empty stomach. He ate hungrily, Jaunysmoke pressed against him, feeding him morsels with her fingers.
The night swirled on in a blur of paper-based extravagance. With every strip he doled out, his status soared. The fawning bartender, the deferential guards, the adoring (and strategically affectionate) companion, the cheers of the crowd—it was a power fantasy come to life, fueled by alcohol and absurdity. If only this stuff was really worth something back home, he mused, a drunken grin plastered on his face as the world began to tilt pleasantly. I've got ten whole packs from that discount app…
A warm, moist breath suddenly tickled his ear, carrying the scent of perfume and that strange ale. Jaunysmoke's lips brushed his lobe as she whispered, her voice a silken promise, "The beds upstairs, boss… they're ever so large. And soft. Much more… private."
A jolt, part anticipation and part final surrender to the madness, went through him. Why not?Leaning heavily on her, he staggered to his feet. They weaved through the crowd, out a rear door, and into a pitch-black stairwell. The sounds of the bar faded behind them, replaced by the creak of old wood underfoot and their own unsteady breathing.
At the top, a door groaned open on rusty hinges. Michael, his vision swimming, had barely a moment to register a darker patch of black that might have been a bedframe before a blinding, explosive pain erupted at the base of his skull. The world didn't fade to black; it shattered into a thousand brilliant, silent shards, and then there was nothing.