As day sank into evening the Rusty Anchor’s front door creaked open and closed more and more often. Fishermen still reeking of the day's catch rubbed elbows with laborers, their hands rough and callused from hours of toil. A few off-duty marines huddled in a corner, dressed to blend in but their disguise betrayed by their close cropped hair and rigid posture. No one in the bar paid them much mind, so Eliot didn’t either.

A few waiters got to work, freeing up to the bartender to resume pretending to wash glasses.

Soon the air was thick with the mingled scents of fresh sweat and recently spilled ale, a slightly less unpleasant aroma than the stale combination Eliot had suffered through when he’d first arrived.

One of the marines broke from their huddle. At a few words a space was cleared by locals and the marines friends alike, and he started to pluck at an instrument. It was some sort of little guitar to Eliot’s eyes, and happy notes began to rise above the din of conversation.

He’d remembered having a few drinks, not really feeling the effect of much of anything. He’d had a few more, thinking maybe the alcohol had gone bad, or was fake, then suddenly the world turned fuzzy. Somewhere along the way, Eliot had stopped merely listening and had become an active participant. His own voice, slightly slurred from the alcohol, joined the chorus, his words tumbling out in an enthusiastic rush.

"And then, get this," Eliot said, his eyes bright with mirth, "the guy just falls over, right into the pig pen! Face first into the mud!"

The woman threw her head back, her laughter sharp and piercing, while the man pounded the bar, his shoulders shaking with mirth.

“You’re tellin' me,” The woman said, between laughing and talking, barely able to find time to breath, “You tripped Red Haired Shanks, the Yonko, into a face full of shit?”

“Someone’s full of shit, don’t think they got red hair though.” The rat-faced man cracked, and set the woman off to cackling again.

“I swear, White Beard’s honor,” Eliot tried as best he could to show how earnest he was, despite how he’d had a few drinks now himself, “ uncle Shanks even said some went up his nose!”

“Uncle?” the man and woman shared a look, mirth dropping for the moment, before a crack of metal on the wood of the bar stole their attention.

“Three more mugs of beer!” Eliot slapped another three 100 berry coins on the bar. He laughed like him and the bartender were sharing a joke when he was yet again given three glasses of sake.

As the night wore on the 100 berry coins flowed. Eliot found that unlike when it happened all at once when the dockworker had robbed him in broad daylight, which he mentioned at least three times to his new friends, Eliot didn’t mind seeing his Berry go a few at a time.

“The gall of that man.” The sharp-faced woman had muttered, as she drank the fourth drink Eliot has paid for.

“Just shameful, taking advantage of a nice lad like you.” The man agreed, now on his fifth..

"They say Mad Dog's got a secret base, deep in the jungle," the woman said, her voice low and conspiratorial. "A place where he can hide out, plan his next move."

Eliot wasn’t how sure to trust her words, she’d just said not five minutes ago the pirate lived out at sea and never docked because he had some sort of reverse devilfruit that would make him drown on land.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

The man nodded, his ferret-like features twitching with excitement. "I heard he's got weapons there, enough to arm a small army. And gold, too. Piles of it, from all the ships he's raided."

Eliot had heard that too, not less than five minutes ago, from someone else they’d just been talking to, who had that again?

Through the night the sharp-faced woman and ferret-faced man’s voices rose and fell like the tide, punctuated by the marines’ notes, raucous laughter and the occasional thump of a mug on the weathered bar top. Eliot remembered himself talking too, passionately, about.. something. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d said now that he’d said it, but the words felt important at the time.

In a lull of noise, Eliot found himself leaning in closer, his elbows resting on the sticky bartop as he listened intently to the rat-faced man. The man’s words flowed over him like the cheap sake, harsh and unfiltered, but strangely intoxicating.

The rat-faced man leaned in, his breath sour with the night's indulgences. His eyes, though glazed, held a glimmer of hard-won wisdom. "Listen close, lad," he said, his voice low and conspiratorial. "In times like these, a man's got to know what's important. Got to have his priorities straight."

Eliot nodded, hanging on every word. The sake had dulled the edges of his mind, but he could sense the gravity in the man's tone. This was the kind of advice that could change a life, alter the very course of a man's destiny.

The man paused for effect, his gaze boring into Eliot's, as if he saw the Eliot’s soul and was weighing the thing, to judge his worthiness. The young bounty hunter's heart raced.

"Now, when it comes to rum," the rat-faced man continued, "there's a few things you need to know. First off, forget about the fancy labels and the pretty bottles. That's just a distraction, a way to catch the eye of fools and lightweights.

What followed over the next thirty minutes was a master class discussion on how to judge, drink, and appreciate rum, lead by none other than the infamous brewer of West Blue Brew. Just the small snippets that Eliot could remember from that night were indeed enough to change his life.

***

The room span, Eliot's vision blurring as the alcohol took hold. Snippets of conversation floated around him, disjointed and hard to follow, his mind drifting between disjointed fragments of memory and imagination.

"...heard the marines are planning something big..."

"...Maddox is a hero, I tell ya..."

Eliot's head swam, the voices around him blending into a discordant hum, words slurring together like paint running down a canvas.

"...no good will come of this, mark my words..."

"...you deaf, dumb and blind? The no good had already done come..."

"...that dojo master joined up, but his daughter isn’t having any of it..."

He strained to focus, to pluck meaning from the chaos, but the task was beyond him.

"...supply lines cut off...rebels starving..."

"...Mad Dog's a mad genius, I tell ya..."

"...tunnels under the town, they say. Running all the way to the coast..."

The snippets of conversation danced in Eliot's mind, tantalizing fragments that hinted at a larger picture he couldn't quite bring into focus. It was like trying to complete a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing and the rest turned upside down.

Eliot's head lolled back, his eyelids heavy. He tried to focus on the faces around him, but they seemed to melt and shift, their features distorted. A laugh escaped his lips, unbidden and inappropriate, earning him a few curious glances.

The world tilted, and Eliot found himself on the floor, the cold wood pressing against his cheek. He struggled to push himself up, his limbs uncooperative. The sharp-faced woman leaned down, her voice a distant echo.

"You alright there, lad? Looks like you've had a bit too much."

Eliot mumbled something incoherent, his tongue thick and clumsy in his mouth. He felt hands gripping his arms, pulling him to his feet. The room spun violently, and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing the nausea to subside.

"I... I’m gonna be a bounty hunter..." Eliot's words trailed off, his thoughts scattered and elusive.

“Sure ya are kid.” The ferret-faced man chuckled, his breath reeking of alcohol. "Looks like the boy can't hold his liquor. Better get him somewhere to sleep it off."

Eliot felt himself being half-carried, half-dragged out of the bar, the cool night air hitting his face like a slap. The world faded in and out, he was inside somewhere, snippets of conversation and laughter floating around him as he drifted into unconsciousness.