“Ughhhhh…”

It wasn’t elegant, but it was the only sound I could make when I started coming to. My face throbbed.

I swore.

My face… That’s my money-maker. Sure, I could sing—kinda—but my face…

I reached for my should-be-busted nose even before opening my had-to-be-swollen eyes. I let out a sigh of relief. Fortunately, everything seemed to be where it was supposed to be.

“Worthless bard. All you do is drink and pass out,” someone said.

“Kurt?” I mumbled, voice coming out slurred and pained.

Didn’t sound like Kurt, though. I risked opening one of my eyes, expecting the bright rainbow-lit bar to be excruciating. But the light was dim. And flickering. Like it wasn’t really light at all.

I peeled open my other eye, sitting up slowly. The stench of spilled beer was overwhelming. That was appropriate, considering what’d happened. What wasn’t appropriate was that I appeared to be sitting in it.

And it smelled old and stale. How long had I been out? My pants were soaked with—

A pair of rough hands hoisted me off the floor.

“Kurt—wait… wait a second—”

Not only did it not sound like Kurt, it didn’t look like him either. An old geezer wearing a leather apron and a stern expression got in my face. He had frizzy muttonchops that curled into a mustache. His yellow teeth were caked in food, and I nearly retched at the smell that accompanied his words.

“Every night, it’s the same damn thing. You waltz in, try to sing, then get drunk and keel over in a heap. I’m sick of it.” He took a step back and his face softened as if he’d instantly calmed. He brushed me off like I was a kid who’d fallen in the dirt. “And you haven’t paid your tab in ages, Daniil.”

“My tab?” I blinked, trying to clear the stars from my vision. “Who’s Daniil?”

The man shook his head. “So drunk you don’t even remember your own damn name. You need help, boy.” He steered me back to a stool. “Try and stay upright for the next few minutes. I’m gonna get you some work.”

“Work?”

Seemed that in my confusion, repeating words had become my only form of communication.

The man threw up his wrinkled hands and wandered across the bar, leaving me on a wobbly stool. After a few seconds, I regained composure enough to survey my surroundings. I wasn’t sure where I was, but I knew, without a doubt, it was not the Heart-Shaped Box.

The flickering light I’d previously noted came from a stone fireplace and some candles on wooden tables. Also, the floor and walls were rough stone, no sheetrock or paint. No neon lights missing letters. No mirrored back wall. It looked like the place hadn’t been cleaned since the dawn of time. The tables were filled with folks dressed straight out of a renaissance fair, only dirtier, and smellier.

Oh, the smell.

You know when you flip open a garbage can that’s too full and has been left out in the hot sun? It smelled like that. Everywhere.

“Where the hell am I?”

The words had barely left my mouth when a light blue square materialized in front of my eyes. A hologram? Or a floating touch screen? The juxtaposition of the old-timey world around me and something that better belonged on an episode of Star Trek had my mind whirling.

Within the light blue field, words appeared…

AN UNEXPECTED HERO.

PART I: Gags, Hags, and Filthy Rags, Oh My!

CURRENT LOCATION:

Tavern

NEW OBJECTIVE:

Convince the braugs to let you sing for them.

REWARD:

Food

The screen, since I guess that’s what it was, wasn’t opaque. Not exactly. It took up a good chunk of my vision, though. However, I could see the rest of the place through it. Superimposed over everything and staying directly in front of my face, even as I turned, the box projected as if from my eyes.

Bizarre. Did everyone see this? I glanced around. No one seemed to pay me any mind at all.

My head still ached from the punch and then the slam into the video game. Was this a symptom of a concussion? Or had I had more beers than I’d realized? Sometimes that happened when I got in the zone.

I looked at the words again…

An Unexpected Hero? Wasn’t that the name of the arcade machine?

I glanced around for Trish and the other moms. Apart from a semi-attractive redhead doling out drinks from table to table and wearing what looked like an Oktoberfest barmaid’s cosplay outfit, everyone was old and of the male persuasion.

Maybe I was dead. Maybe I’d spilled my brains all over that machine and this was the afterlife. It was a far cry from any kind of heaven or hell I’d been lectured on as a kid in Sunday school. Eternity in a tavern. Solid. At least if I was dead, the suburban housewives would be talking about my final performance forever.

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

But I didn’t feel dead. And I’d had enough bad hangovers in my time to be pretty confident about what I thought death would feel like.

A new message flashed across the weird hologram in front of my face.

CURRENT HEALTH: 70% (Drunken Impairment)

That was true. No one is one hundred percent after three or more Guinnesses. Or is it Guinessi? And how did this thing know what my health was? I’d never considered my health state in percentages before.

Maybe Kurt had socked me into a coma, and this was some sort of weird new healing technique that combined virtual reality with therapeutics. Hadn’t I read an article about that somewhere? But where?

Ugh.

Thinking made my head hurt.

The guy who wasn’t Kurt ambled back over, rubbing his hands together. What was this guy’s problem? Could he see the hologram and read that I was drunk?

I hadn’t even asked the question out loud, but the screen promptly issued a written response.

No. I am present only for you, Danny Boy.

It flashed again as the guy stopped in front of me. He suddenly became… highlighted? Literally. A thin aura of whitish-blue light surrounded him, not unlike the color of the screen itself.

NAME: Rarmir

OCCUPATION: Tavern Owner

RACE: Wellick (male)

What the hell is a wellick?

Again, I hadn’t spoken out loud, but the screen answered.

Wellicks are a humanoid race that make up much of the world. They differ only slightly from your kind—mostly below the waist—so you will blend in. Until you take your pants off.

Can I continue now?

I blinked, then shook my head. So, the screen could answer my direct thoughts?

Hey, what do you mean until I take my pants off?

You’ll see.

I groaned. Okay, I had questions and needed answers. I tried a simple one.

Have you got a name?

No.

Where am I?

A tavern. Hence, the Tavern Owner.

I meant location.

CURRENT LOCATION (EXPANDED):

Tavern. Town of Nahal. Kingdom of Pyruun.

Kingdom? What the actual hell? I guess I shouldn’t ask what planet I’m on, huh? Because obviously, I’ve cracked.

I swear the screen sighed.

If you continue asking such silly questions, we’ll never get anywhere.

I’m… sorry?

Very good. Now, where was I? Ah, yes…

RARMIR’S SPECIAL ABILITIES: Master brewer, spirits distiller, facial hair to die for.

WEAPONS: Oaken Club

He has a club?

I didn’t get an answer, because the Tavern Owner—Rarmir, or whatever his name was—started babbling at me. Listening to him made my head hurt even more. But one thing was for certain, he couldn’t see the screen. Nobody would act so normally if their own profile stood in midair before them. He just talked right through it.

“All right, I had a talk with them, but it’s gonna be up to you to win them over,” Rarmir said, deep chasms creasing his brow. “They’re a rough lot, no doubt. If I was you, I’d put on my best performance tonight or they’re liable to beat you senseless.”

I kind of wanted to vomit all over him just to see his reaction. Honestly, it wouldn’t be hard with how I felt.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

Rarmir grunted. “I don’t put up with your antics because it’s funny. I keep you around to entertain my guests. There ain’t much in way of entertainment ’round these parts—and you barely do that. But enough’s enough, Daniil. You’re gonna earn your keep tonight. Now get your skinny rump over there and strike up a conversation with their leader. See if you can’t get him to hire you proper. Who knows, you might even make enough to settle your tab here.”

He pointed to a group behind me that I hadn’t noticed before. Which was shocking since they were louder than a flock of elephants. Flock? That can’t be right.

A group of elephants is commonly called a herd or, less commonly, a parade.

Hmmm. Thanks?

“C’mon. Move!” Rarmir shouted before waddling away like a penguin.

I didn’t feel very much like doing anything except possibly going to sleep. For a really, really long time. But, I was pretty sure if I wasn’t dead, I was already asleep and having one of the weirdest, most vivid dreams of my life.

What was in that beer?

It’s ale—or more specifically, a stout—which consists of roasted barley, malted barley, hops, yeast, and water.

This is gonna get old.

As I stood and approached the crowd of ruffians, butterflies unfurled in my stomach. Something I didn’t think happened in dreams. A mix of men and women, each one was fiercer than the last.

They looked like they’d just raided a Burlington Coat Factory. Or an S&M shop, all furs and leathers.

The screen flashed again.

BRAUGS: A surly, barbarous folk from the far north. When they aren’t battling, they are anxious for good food, drink, and amusement. These warriors are most sought after as hired guards and mercenaries, as their natural size and innate Rage give them extraordinary strength and unparalleled melee skills.

They are not likely to be kind to you.

Gee, thanks. That’s helpful.

Look at me, being sarcastic to a floating box like a moron.

You’re welcome. Go talk to the braugs.

That is your current quest.

Quest? Am I a knight here?

Hardly.

I heaved a sigh. My head still throbbed like a tiny dwarf was working a hammer and anvil inside of my skull. But what the hell? I’d play along and see how far into the weird this nightmare took me.

Standing, I glanced down for the first time. I wore a ruffled shirt that had once been white but now appeared permanently stained tan from sweat and alcohol.

The puffy shirt from Seinfeld. Classic.

“I don’t wanna be a pirate!”

You know Seinfeld?

The screen didn’t respond. Holy crap. I was going crazy.

I shook my head and continued examining my clothing. My pants weren’t really pants at all. What’d they call those things? Breeches? Capris? All I knew was they certainly weren’t comfortable. They ended just above my ankles and were coarse and itchy.

The screen’s warning repeated in my mind. What did it mean the wellicks were only different if I took my pants off?

I considered peering beneath the fabric to see if anything had changed before thinking better of exposing myself in a room full of strangers.

Instead, I continued examining my clothing. But that was it, other than simple leather shoes that covered my feet.

Not exactly GQ material here, slick.

“Oy!” Rarmir barked.

I turned back to the bar to find him scowling and pointing at something behind me.

“Don’t forget your lute, you numbskull.”

I followed his finger to the instrument on the sticky, worn bar. I didn’t even know what exactly a lute was. Some sort of woodwind instrument, except this thing had strings like a guitar.

That’s a flute, not a lute.

Thanks, WikiAnswers. Well, I know how to play a guitar. How hard can it be?

It’s your lie. Tell it how you want to.

I huffed, then picked up the lute. It was old and used, but it held a certain charm.

The crowd of braugs I was apparently meant to entertain tore through a table of unappetizing food Rarmir must’ve laid out for them earlier. None used any utensils; just dirty, nasty hands, all greasy and wet.

Suddenly, I noticed my bladder overflowing with all that beer. Was there a bathroom in this bar?

Tavern.

Whatever, you dumb screen.

I took a breath and wondered if I could hold it for roughly an hour. Probably not.

I really have to do this, huh?

Yes.

I sighed again.

Awesome.