The only places still open this time of night were the few taverns and whore houses in Denark. One was hardly distinguishable from the other. It was more a preference of name rather than services rendered, as any place that served liquor had its share of whores as well, and vice versa. Given the large number of travelers Denark attracted, the town developed a reputation for its “adult services.” One such establishment was known as “The Bleeding Duck,” located nearly at the center of town. A colorful name for its colorful regulars, it was known as one of the rougher taverns in Denark. It was pretty well accepted that you entered at your own risk. Mostly a hangout for leathers and bounty hunters, fights broke out almost every night, and although few were fatal, it was known to happen.
Of course, this was one of the few crimes you could get away with in Denark. If you committed murder in the street you would be hung the same day. But if it happened during a fight in one of the taverns or places known for their night life, it was merely an accident. The unwritten rule was that you knew the risks before ever entering such a place. The owners of these establishments were more concerned with anything that might have been broken in the tussle as opposed to any loss of life. This was still a business, after all.
The Bleeding Duck was unusually slow tonight due to the weather. Topless waitresses walked around serving drinks to the usual rough lot that graced that establishment almost every night. They would show up in the middle of an earthquake if necessary; a little rain meant nothing. It would take a lot more than that to stop this group from getting their poison.
The room was brightly lit with the many lanterns hung around the room. Yellow and white stripes running down the wallpaper gave the place an innocent feel. Five small, round, wooden tables complete with four plain wooden chairs apiece was the extent of the furniture. A worn-out staircase led up to the second level, where rooms could be rented for the night or by the hour if so wished. The heads of different game animals were spread around the room high on the walls, with wooden plaques holding up the trophies. A bear’s head was the most obvious, with a few strange creatures mixed in. One looked like a deer head but had three small horns and unusually large eyes.
Vega, a large, bald, heavyset man, stood behind the bar pretending to clean off glass mugs with his apron as he stood under the bear’s head. Considering how filthy his apron was, it was a good thing he was only half-heartedly going through the motions while his attention remained where it always was: looking out for his girls as they paraded around in next to nothing, and in other cases nothing.
Most of the girls carried a dagger somewhere on them, whether stuffed in the sides of their thongs or in leather sheaths tied to their lower legs. There were not many places to conceal such a thing, but that wasn’t really the point. Having a weapon in plain view made each of them seem like less of a target for some of the vile lots they were forced to deal with. And maybe, more importantly, it made Vega feel better.
As he continued pretending to be busy, he watched his girls getting pinched and groped by the group of leathers in the far corner, who were the only customers remaining this time of night. He had learned long ago when to act or just let things be. For one, his girls could take care of themselves, and knew how to defuse any situation that got out of hand. One thing that was a little harder for him to accept was the simple fact that many of his girls liked the attention, and really had no limits at all when it came to making coin.
He wasn’t jealous exactly, it was just that he had a daughter of his own and simply could not imagine her working in a place like this or being treated like a sexual toy. Most of his girls came from broken homes and had nowhere else to go. Some were severely abused, and he took them under his wing and cared for them like his own daughters, but at the end of the day they had to make their own choices, and all he could do was offer employment and protection. When he opened The Bleeding Duck oh so many years ago, he was young and brash. Sure, he had sampled many of the girls he’d hired, but as Vega got older he regretted a lot of the choices he had made. No sense living in the past.
The group of four leathers in the corner was all that was left in the place at this hour as they sat with a few of the girls. Well, three men at the table and one off in the other corner. That one had one of the girls bent over the table and was being cheered on by the others to the sound of clapping and whistling. Her trained moans made him feel like a king, but all the while her smile was quite genuine, thinking of the coin her performance would earn her.
In between cheers for their friend, the three who were not as “occupied” were telling their same stories again: of the time they raided the town of Brinton and slaughtered every family that held residence. Of course, their version of the tale had them meeting stiff resistance, with them prevailing from insurmountable odds as wave after wave of trained solders were sent to the afterlife by their blades.