There’s a dive bar just off Berwick Street, that’s a bit special. Out of the ordinary. You’ll know it by the sign on the door - a leg with a face.

Go through the door and down the steps and be sure to greet the bouncer with respect. He doesn’t tolerate rudeness or ridicule. He’ll ask you for a password and if you know it, you must speak it perfectly in the language of demons.

If you went there right now, at this small hour of the night, with the moon a waxing crescent, you might notice a peacock and a man in a green suit sharing a drink at a corner table.

“Just what’re you up to Goodfellow?” asks the peacock. “I know you of old don’t forget. I know your wit, your wiles.” He’s got a voice like a cockney bookie. A car dealer’s voice. The kind of voice spoken by the kind of man who would wear a football manager’s long sheepskin coat.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

The man in the green suit raises his glass of brandy. “Just playing the game Andre, playing the game.”

The peacock laughs. “But without a care for the rules, that’s for sure.”

“That is kind of my deal.”

The man in the suit takes a packet of dry roasted peanuts from his pocket, splits them open and places them on the table to share with the bird.

“I think you’re trying to fuck it up,” says the peacock. “For all of us.”

The man munches on a couple of nuts and nods.

“Now why on earth would I want to do that?”