Johnny

“Pocket nine, pocket nine! Show me the pocket nine!”

With one last blow for good luck, Johnny threw the dice. The clatter of the ivory was the only sound throughout the bar. The suspense lay thick in the air. The Baimon’s grimace contrasted Johnny’s foolhardy grin. The elephant man’s eyes narrowed, and the little twitches of his trunk gave the only indication of his anxiety and stress.

Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter. Johnny and the Baimon leaned in closer. Johnny was grateful for the bolts that held the table onto the ground. “Helps keep the big boys like this one from cheating,” he thought.

Finally, the dice began to slow. The first rolled up four. Johnny beamed. “COME ON POCKET NINE!!”

The other die rolled against the table, heading right under the Baimon. Sweat began to pool from the top of his head. His trunk began to spasm visibly and more profoundly now. Clink, clink. The die was on the edge between four and five. Johnny’s smile slowly deteriorated, and his heart stopped. Clink. Four. The Baimon stood up and trumpeted a bellow of joy, a shout of relief and victory filling the once still air. “DAMNIT!!!” Johnny screamed in rage as he stood up and slammed his fist against the table.

The Baimon gave the same grin as Johnny did moments before, “Pay up,” he rumbles with an outstretched hand. Johnny grumbled as he reached into his coin sack for twelve gold pieces. “A fluke, a godsdamn fluke,” he mutters.

The Baimon pressed his giant hand against his massive ear, “What was that again?” he toyed, collecting his winnings.

“A godsdamn FLUKE!” Johnny snaps, “I wager everything I have to beat you!”

The Baimon roars with laughter. The other mortals watching laughed with him. The Baimon wipes tears away and looks down at Johnny, “Little Human, accept your loss. I do not wish to fight a bad loser. They tend to end up getting themselves hurt…”

Johnny petulantly sat back down and threw his legs onto the table. He then stated with a grin, “I promise, not only will I not hurt you, but I will not lose again. Mistress Luck always favors me at times like these, and the favor she gives me rewards are equal to my boldness. If you are too afraid, gladly walk out with twelve gold coins instead of,” Johnny turns over the rest of the pouch, “an additional twenty-seven.”

Whoever was laughing now stopped. The Baimon sat back down and simply asked, “What game?”

Johnny took his feet off the table and said, “Under/Over. Know the rules?”

The Baimon shook his head. Johnny explained, “Simple game, simple rules. Operator, the one rolling the dice, calls out under, over, or lucky seven. If you bet correctly, you get paid two to one on under and over. But,” Johnny grabbed the dice and held them between his fingers with the numbers five and two facing the Baimon, “if you bet on seven, the payout is five to one.”

Johnny slammed the dice onto the table and strummed his fingers on the stone. He then leaned back and asked, “Since yer big mitts would crush them and ya obviously don't trust me, we can have someone impartial act as mediator and operator. How bout…” Johnny was cut off by the ratty cobblestone ceiling rumbling above them.

The low-hanging lanterns shuddered a little, chunks of the rocks above fell from the ceiling alongside clumps of dirt. Most landed harmlessly, and a few nearly knocked on some of the patrons’ heads. But one unfortunate rock came crashing down on the ivory dice, crushing them to a fine white powder.

The room looked around in bewilderment and mutters erupted around the quiet room. Johnny shook his head and piped up, “Well, since those dice are clearly no good anymore, what about using my dice?”

“Absolutely not!” The Baimon bellowed.

Johnny pulled a set of stone dice from his pocket and asked, gesturing to the dice, “I promise there’s nothing wrong with them, find someone that you trust to check them. I

promise that they have no tricks, magical or otherwise. Hells, find someone you can cast or read a truth spell if ya have them.”

The Baimon raised an eyebrow and stared at Johnny, trying to find any hint of deceit. After a quick moment, he picked the dice up and began tapping at them. He searched every crevice of the dice he could but could not find anything suggesting that these were not regular dice. With a snap of his stubby fingers, a raggedy Rakshasa scampered towards him. His fur looked dirtier than the floor of the room, and clumps of the rusty orange hairs were falling out. The mangy creature's most notable feature was the headpiece he wore. It was a metal headband with an abundance of different sized eyeglasses. As the Rakshasa snatched the dice, he flicked one of the glasses down and began to inspect the dice. Johnny raised an eyebrow and asked, “What’s that?”

“A Multiplex Magicia Enhancement Crystal Apparatus,” the mangey Rakshasa rattled off with a grating nasal pitch.

The Baimon snorted, “It allows him to find any odd magics. Basically, it sees if you are using rigged dice.”

“Ahh.”

The little Rakshasa kept twisting and turning the dice over and over. The Baimon began to tap his stumpy fingers on the table, trying to coax the little mortal to hurry. Johnny sat there, staring up and counting cobblestones out of boredom. After a painful couple of minutes, he returned his attention and slammed his hand onto the table, “Are you done yet?!”

The Rakshasa hissed and snarled in annoyance, “Just a couple more moments. I need to check every detail,” and then continued his meticulous searching.

The Baimon raised a finger before Johnny snapped again and explained, “Nitpicking like this is why I keep him close, so relax. If your Mistress Luck is as loving as you claim, then be patient, relax. She’ll ‘reward’ you in just a moment,” snickering and leaning back in a chair that was on the edge of snapping under his weight.

Johnny folded his arms and kicked his feet back onto the table. After an agonizing four minutes and 26 seconds of Johnny wishing for booze the Rakshasa chirped, “No magics!”

The Baimon awoke from his daze, blinked a couple of times, and slowly turned to his little minion. He looked at him, puzzled, “You found no magics in the dice?”

“Correct!” the Rakshasa happily informed.

The Baimon turned to Johnny, looked surprised, and trumpeted with laughter. “You are serious! You truly believe a Divine, even one as insignificant as Mistress Luck, cares about your games? Alright, prove it!”

Johnny reached out his palm and said, “You first friend.”

The Baimon snorted and declared without taking his eyes off Johnny, “Ten gold pieces, over,” and snatched the dice from the Rakshasa’s hands.

The miserable creature yelped in pain, a mix between a chirp and a yowl. The Baimon jostled the tiny dice in his hands and tossed them onto the table. Eight. The Baimon snorted and waved his hand over the dice to invite Johnny to go. The monk calmly picked up the dice and stated, “Eleven gold pieces, over,” blew in his hand, and threw it. Clatter. Three.

Johnny grimaced. The Baimon grinned and taunted, “Mistress Luck is a bitch, huh?”

Johnny shot him a look of horror. “You shouldn’t have done that! She hates being called names!” wiggling his finger, “Mistress Luck can be like a crotchety old lady if you don’t respect her.”

The Baimon simply laughed, “Ha! Fifteen gold pieces, seven!”

He snatched the dice onto the table and threw them back down violently. The dice tumbled and bounced all around the table. The audience was staring wide-eyed and holding their breath in anticipation. First came a four. The Baimon raised his fist in the air, waiting. A three. He let out a trumpet of victory. Johnny coughed politely into his fist and pointed at the dice.

The Baimon looked down at the table in confusion. Two dice twinned with threes stared back at him. He glared at Johnny with murder, “Ain’t no honor flipping the dice like that.”

“He didn’t touch them!” the Rakshasa chirped.

The Baimon whirled on him, “What?!”

“The dice flipped on its own! It turned into a three! It had to be Mistress Luck! Why-”

The Baimon grabbed the Rakshasa’s throat with one hand and ordered, “Shut up!! I know she cannot interfere so you should too! The Stars are too far above to care about one game!”

He glared back down and yelled, “Seven!”

Rolled again, and another seven came up, except after the stop, the three flipped to a four. The Biamon slammed his fist on the table, and it came up to seven, but the four turned to a three. Again he rolled. Eight. Again. Eight. Again. Six. The Baimon stared in horror. Johnny pointed at the dice, “See? She hates being called names. Pay up now so she doesn’t do worse to ya later.”

The Baimon looked down at the dice. The Rakshasa clawed at his master's hand still around his throat and choked, “Pllllleeeaaas-gak!!”

He dropped the mangy creature and kept staring down at the cursed dice. Budgredly, The Baimon opened his purse, “Seventy-five gold coins….” he said, emptying as much as he could from his bag.

Johnny counted the coins as he stuffed them into his purse, “I count sixty-three. Are ya as bad at counting as ya are at gambling?”

The Baimon glared, “You best remember,” as he stood up, “Where ya are at, little Human.”

Sounds of weapons leaving their sheaths filled Johnny’s ears. He glared back at the Baimon, “Now who’s being a sore loser? Again, ya are the one who pissed off Mistress Luck, not me. Besides, I got coin to pay off anyone who would come save me from this big scawee monster!”

Everyone turned their attention towards the Baimon, even the small Rakshasa. Johnny grinned devilishly, keeping an eye on the Baimon’s oversized knife.

The tension broke when the doors were slammed off their hinges; Royal guards flooded through the cavern. Enchanted clubs that sparked with electricity smashed through anyone who resisted. Johnny flicked his fingers, and a puff of air flung the loose coins into his bag. Johnny started to make his way towards the door, but heard, “Wait! That’s Johnny Stone! Lord Khalaghanawill forgive all crimes if you stop that Human over there!”

Johnny felt every eye turn to him. He did not waste any time nor take any chances. Johnny slammed his fists together, pointed them downwards, and spun in a circle turning on his heels. Johnny heard the hurried rush of boots as he clenched his arms to his sides and pushed both fists outwards. The floor opened beneath him and Johnny fell into the exposed earth. He deftly sealed the earth above him with a hard punch to either side of the hole, concealing him within the earth.

Everyone stared for a brief second, then an eruption of violence followed. Guards were detaining those who did not fight back while those that did found themselves dead on the floor. The Baimon stared down at the spot where Johnny vanished, trying to understand what just happened. The Baimon looked at the dirt floor, the cobblestone ceiling, and finally, the stone dice. A thought exploded in his mind, and the Biamon wrinkled his face in absolute fury. “FUCKING CHEATER!”

Johnny grinned and began to stroll through the sewers of Manakith and jingled his coin pouch while tossing it from side to side with miniature gusts of air. He twisted his hip and let it fall directly onto his belt as the string tied itself around the leather. He felt like he should treat himself to a treat tonight. A warm bed, hot food and cold beer from some tavern sounded nice.

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Johnny awoke on a mediocre bed with his hands bound together. He tried to bring them up to his eyes, but was not able to. The familiar tug of rope bound the entirety of his arms behind his back. The tavern keeper Johnny had tried to hustle knew a little bit more about what Johnny could do than most of the rabble in Manakith. Johnny felt a growing, acute pain crawling up his skull. So then, either the tavern keep or someone the tavern keep hired got closer than they should have been able to. Johnny kept calm; this was not the first time this had happened, nor he believed, the last time this would happen to him.

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He looked across the room for anything of use: no knives, splintered wood, or the like. Cutting the rope was not an option.. He began the process of standing up and muttered to himself, “Ass bought the good rope, sad that his investment will be shot.”

Johnny got mostly upright when he realized his feet were bound as well. “Shit!” He exclaimed as he fell face-first back onto the bed

This… did not change the plan; it just added extra steps. Well, extra hard steps that needed to be taken with his feet tied together. Johnny wiggled off the bed and dropped to the floor as quietly as possible. He wriggled his way underneath the bed and with his feet and legs, he lifted one side of the wooden bed frame and slowly wriggled on his side towards the uplifted end of the bed.

Delicately, Johnny lowered the bed, slid one of the thin legs between his back and bound arms. The bind was just loose enough for him to wriggle the bedpost in between his back and arms, but Johnny felt trickles of blood flow from his back as he scraped the cheap pine wood against his flesh. “Oh,” Johnny muttered to himself, “Yer expenses can cover the finest kidnapping ropes but beds that are made from shit cut into the budget too much.”

Once Johnny softly put the leg all the way against the ground , he began to work the rope back and forth against the leg, listening for the hemp strands slowly unraveling. Unfortunately, the leg was also straining against his might and shattered. The bed slammed down on the side of his head with a loud thud.. His vision had a brief flash of darkness, followed by another low buzzing of pain. Johnny bit his tongue trying not to make a sound.

He opened his teary eyes as he heard a commotion from below. “Shit!” He quietly cursed.

The sounds of hurried footsteps slamming against a staircase made Johnny’s heart race all the faster.

Johnny hastily wiggled out from under the bed, and Johnny lunged towards the broken leg grabbing it behind his back. He began sawing at the ropes holding his arms. The deafening sounds of heavy footsteps made the process of freeing himself a bit less like a delicate, nuanced plan and more like a desperate flail to get out. Johnny felt the wood pierce his right hand, his blood trickling onto the floor. The heavenly sound of the rope snapping finally graced his ears. Johnny flexed and whipped his arms around, removing the rest of his rope from his arms.

As he pulled the world’s worst splinter out, the door to his room slammed open. The three burly Humans who looked like they grew from the seedy underbelly of Manakith charged Johnny. Johnny took a deep breath, pushed it out, while simultaneously jutting an open palm forward. A gale force of wind slammed the would-be bounty hunters back into the hallway, curses following close behind them.

Johnny looked down at his feet and began to squeeze his injured hand as hard as he could. The trickle of blood became a stream. Then, he pointed two fingers with his left hand at the small pool of blood and twirled his fingers in an upward corkscrew. The blood leaped up and followed a mirrored path, rippling and glistening in the moonlight. He brought his injured hand up as if it were a knife, and the unorganized blood followed suit. Johnny then cut downwards, and the blade made of his blood tore at the ropes at his legs.

He heard the guards arguing and clambering back up with the sounds of steel being drawn and crossbows being strung. Johnny turned, ran towards the window, and covered his face with his arms. Smashing through the cheap glass, he landed on the tavern's roof. The momentum sending him hurtling towards the edge. Johnny flew off the roof but grabbed onto the gutters of a nearby building with his injured hand, saving him from the bone-breaking fall below. A jolt of pain reminded Johnny that his hand was still bleeding and still in pain. Johnny grabbed the gutter with his other hand and moaned, “Shit!”

Pulling himself up past the pain, the first thing he saw was one of the guards looking out of the broken window. Both he and the guard were surprised, yet the guard’s immediate response was to bring his crossbow to bear. Johnny looked down at the drop, looked back, looked down again, and yelled, “Shit!” as he flung himself from the roof and plummeted towards the streets back first.

Panicked, he rotated his palms downwards and shot a burst of fire out of them, just barely slowing his descent. Johnny landed on the street after a tiny bounce. Pain coursed through his body, but he was grateful that it was only surface level bruising. He was still alive, after all. As he picked his head off the stonework and rolled to the side, a bolt embedded itself where Johnny was. “Shit!”

Johnny looked up to see all three thugs looking down and they were aiming. Two more fired their bolts, and Johnny rolled backwards and lifted himself onto a handstand on his left hand. The bolts missed their mark, biting into the road. Using the momentum that brought him up, Johnny pushed himself into a handspring and launched himself underneath the awning of the tavern. The thugs stood near the edge, reloading and readying their crossbows for when Johnny would leap out and run. Then the one on the left widened his eyes, grabbed the middle by the collar, and shouted, “Shit!”

As the thug forced himself backward, he and his partner fell backward on the shingles, cracking some in the process. The other was too late. A chorus of stone spikes bit into the roof, with one finding its mark. It pierced the foot of the lone thug, nailing him to the roof. He let out a scream soaked in pain and confusion as the spike kept growing. The thug stopped his screaming as the spike shot upwards and pierced his chin and lodged itself in his skull, killing him instantly. The observant thug ran back to the edge of the roof and spotted Johnny running. He brought his crossbow up, aimed, and fired.

Johnny looked over his shoulder and spun as the bolt was about to reach him. With a fluid motion, Johnny grabbed the arrow shaft and continued into the spin. He guided the bolt back around and redirected it with a push of air. With barely a second to react, the thug dove to the left and heard the scream of the bolt as it whizzed past him. While he felt secure, he heard the sound of a bloody gasp behind him.

Peering over his shoulder, the thug found that the man he had saved before now had a bolt in his throat. The thug gurgled his last breath, the life leaving his eyes. The remaining thug turned back around and reloaded as quickly as possible. When he brought his crossbow to bear, Johnny had already escaped his sight line and slinked back into the shadows. The thug stood there, looking over at his still partners. He turned around and climbed back inside. “Nope, I’m done. I need a drink, then I’m leaving this starforsaken city."

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Johnny snatched the low-grade healing potion while the hapless merchant talked to a potential customer. Inspecting the bottle, he grimaced. Easy grab means low rewards. The typical violet shine of a workable potion had a muddled red-violet grime instead. It might work, but it could also harm just as much as it helped. Johnny thought about it for all of two seconds. He downed the potion. With a splitting, radiating pain, he felt his hand restitch, but all of the micro-lacerations from the glass still burned.

Lurking in the beggar streets of Manakith was easy. Along with the regular assortment of poor folk, monks from many backgrounds gather here. Purposefully impoverished, humble, at peace—nothing like Johnny. He thought that simply living life would give him some sort of fulfillment, but all it brought was a yearning heart and a bored mind. To push away everything that made him a mortal in order to achieve some sort of enlightenment was the biggest con he had ever been a part of. Part of him was jealous he did not think of the con himself. He returned to the busiest area and returned to a familiar yet hated position. He put his hands outstretched and head bowed. Johnny began to beg.

Hours later, the street guards told everyone to move it. Johnny was happy to comply, among the first to stand. He wandered around the dingy marketplace, looking for anything worthwhile. Most were selling trinkets and blatant knockoffs for prices that not even the most intoxicated of spenders would buy, but he headed towards one of the stalls anyway. Spotting a bored Drakekin with suspicious looking meats, Johnny waved and said, “Hello! Where’s the nearest strong drink? Preferably someplace quiet.”

The Drakekin slithered his forked tongue, “Who’s asking?”

Johnny always got goosebumps when talking to Drakekin. Something about dragging out their S’s made him instinctually uncomfortable. But he also knew that the ‘Lord’ hated their kind. “Someone with a thirst, duh,” he replied.

“So why ask me?”

Johnny smirked, “Would it be racist to assume that a scaly fella like yaself knew a good place to get away from us smoothskins?”

The scaled merchant stared with unblinking eyes for a long second. “The closest is Nugah’s Grand Fighting Pit, though the toll is heavy.”

Pleased that the information was not a haggling nightmare, he went to grab his recently depleted coin purse, finding that less than a handful were there. “Damn them!” Johnny spat.

He still grabbed a couple pieces of silver and slammed it on the kiosk. The Drakekin nodded and said, “Around the second corner from the right. Look for a slightly lighter plank and knock thrice. Tell them Kamagau sent you.”

Johnny nodded back and stomped towards the location. He was furious and needed a stiff drink, maybe a smoke or something to make this bubbling fury go away. Johnny looked down the alley that the merchant told him about. He kept inspecting each plank of wood but could not find the difference between the boards. After seven minutes of fruitless searching, he just began screaming and started kicking the wall.

After a while, a voice came from behind the wall and asked, “Oi! Quit kicking the shit out the wall!”

Johnny glowered where the voice came from and shouted, “Just trying to find a drink! I was told by some scaly bastard there’s some around here. I got coin. Open up!”

There was a pause, “No can do.”

Johnny began to steam and whispered spitefully, “Kamagau sent me. Open. The door. Please.”

There was another pause of silence, then a click. Johnny saw the cobblestone road connecting to the wall crack and then slowly open, revealing a staircase heading down. Johnny smirked, “Staircase to the underworld. Fitting.”

He stepped down. The top closed behind him, and lanterns suddenly lit all along the path. Johnny felt a spark of magic filling him, and he peered at the lights. The ambient flames were moving too unnaturally. Johnny closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling the enchantment of the magics. He soon found that each flame radiated not only light, but a desire to be angry. Johnny reponed his eyes and tried to find the mortal who was talking to him through the wall but found none. Johnny shrugged; creepy dens like this are something one should only dwell a little on.

Johnny continued downward. The echoes of his footsteps slowly faded as the sounds from below drowned them out. The sounds of city scum filled Johnny’s ears. There was fighting, glass was breaking, howls of fornication rang throughout the halls, and good old-fashioned shouting echoed. Johnny chuckled. These were the kind of people who would fight with him for existing in their direction. Johnny did not care; he could immediately turn anyone who wanted to fight him into fine red paste.

The sights accompanying the sounds from above greeted Johnny as he entered the pit. Mortals drawing knives at each other and fighting with their fists. Animalistic screams were in sync with the shadows of couples coupling. And the most beautiful sight, a bar lined with rows of beers, wines, and other alcohols. Johnny wasted no time and walked with a clear purpose.

A Rakshasa, with a vicious glint in his eye, separated from his group and stalked Johnny. As he closed the distance, the Rakshasa snagged Johnny’s shoulder and began to speak, “Hey! Hairless ape!!”

Johnny grabbed the offending forearm and snapped the Rakshasa’s wrist with a quick push on the fingers, bending them until the palm was face up, parallel with the rest of the arm. There was an undignified squeal followed by a sharp crack. The Rakshasa let go without much choice, and Johnny kicked him to gain some distance. He then raised two hands in fists, and two stone pillars came up from the ground next to Johnny. He pushed his hands forward, and the little pillars were right next to the Rakshasa. Johnny then brought his fists together, and the stones mimicked his movement. They rocketed towards each other, crushing the legs of the Rakshasa into little more than mist and jelly.

Johnny let go of his concentration, allowing the would-be assaulter to rest upon the rocks for as long as he would be in this mortal plane. Johnny felt exhausted. All of his usage of the Humors left him drained. He would need some time to meditate before he could call upon them again. However, in this moment, all he needed was a drink.

No one dared make any movements towards Johnny. The little gang of Rakshasa’s were crying and trying to comfort their passing brother. However, only one of them chose to peer above their tears and glare at the monk. Even with their growls, hisses, and barred teeth conveying anger, the fluffed tails told the truth.

Johnny’s only thought was of how beautiful the bar looked. A rusted cage over the goods and the barkeep standing by to keep both the bar and the liquor safe. Raised stone pillars replaced regular barstools with dents that told of brawls from ages ago. He felt that itch again, that itch that just wanted to cause trouble. He shook it off. The bartender would not pour for someone who pulled a stunt, especially here. Besides, Johnny could not move the iron in the cage like he could with the basic elements. Combine that with the fact that his connection to the Humors was completely exhausted, it was clear that Johnny’s capacity for trouble was severely limited here.

Johnny waved down the bartender and asked, “I want something stronger than wine and beer. Flavor doesn’t matter right now.”

The barkeep shrugged and pulled one of the bottom shelf bottles—clear liquid in a simple, square bottle with what appeared to be Baimon script. The barkeep placed a short glass in front of Johnny. A satisfying pop caressed Johnny’s ears. The bartender then tilted the bottle so the liquid streamed into the glass. As soon as the last drop entered the small glass, Johnny grabbed it and slammed down whatever coin he had left. The smell was repugnant, but the familiar scent of alcohol drew itself across every fiber of Johnny’s being. A smile escaped from his tired body and he began to sip. His stomach and liver groaned in protest, but his heart and mind welcomed the relief.

“Another please,” Johnny said, shaking out the rest of his coin.

He sat in bliss even if his body and his soul ached. The bliss changed when Johnny heard the sound of someone sitting to his right. He opened his right eye to find an Orc smiling stupidly beside him. Johnny raised an eyebrow and questioned, “Yes?”

“Johnny, right? I…”

Johnny immediately pulled out a small knife from his sleeve and thrust the blade into the beast’s throat. The Orc grabbed his wrist in a burst of movement before it found purchase and explained, still smiling, “Hey! I don’t want to turn you in or anything of that sort! I need you to be part of my clan!”

Johnny turned his head and, begrudgingly, his attention to the Orc, “What?”

“I came here to find people like you! Mortals that have a desire to go beyond these petty walls and cities, that have the strength to back up those their will.”

“Why?”

“To conquer the Endless Plains and, if the gods allow me to live long enough, the Worlds!”

“How?”

The Orc looked concerned, “Do you only talk in one word questions?”

“Maybe.”

The Orc looked puzzled, seeming to contemplate something. Johnny tried to yank his arm away while the Orc was thinking, but the Orc did not let go despite his lack of concentration. Johnny coughed and asked, “Um, excuse me, can I have my arm please?”

The Orc shook his head, “Sorry Johnny. You are a confusing one. You sure you are sound of mind and body? I thought monks were supposed to… be… that.”

Johnny ignored the question and yanked his arm away. He was there to enjoy a drink, and by the gods, he would do it. After a couple of sips, Johnny remembered, “That’s right, ya were the Orc from the city tavern. I didn’t have the time to thank ya, so, thank ya.”

“First, "the Orc stated, “My name is Urlug. I am an Orcbai. Half Orc and half Baimon. Makes me better than purebloods.”

Johnny smirked and spat, “Whatever, Orc is an Orc.”

“Second, racist. Third, thanks isn’t enough. I need more.”

Johnny groaned, “Listen, I don’t have enough coin to…”

“I don’t want coin. I want you.”

“No thanks, I like mortals who don’t have a weapon between their pants.”

Urlug paused for a moment, then scowled, “I don’t want to mount you, I want you to join me in conquest."

Johnny’s stomach tightened. He swiveled back towards Urlug and bowed, “Yer praise humbles me, mighty one. I do think other mortals might be better suited to join ya and yer misfit clan. I am but a monk who practices peace whenever and wherever he can, not really suited for constant fighting. Perhaps those in the fighting pit might meet yer grand requirements?”

Urlug frowned, placed his head upon a fist, and sighed, “No, I thought so too. Had a fight with one of the ‘champions’. He went down in just one punch. Crush his head in making me waste a Mother’s Tear on him.”

Johnny lifted his eyebrow, “Crushed his head? Mother’s Tear?”

“You’ve never heard of Mother’s Tear? It’s an easy healing remedy to find!”

“Ooh,” Johnny remarked, “Most people just call it a healing potion.”

“Yeah! So you’ve heard of it?”

Johnny blinked, “Yeah, I’ve heard of it.”

As he sipped his liquor, a thought crossed Johnny’s mind, “So if I joined ya and was found lacking, what would happen?”

Urlug answered, “Probably the same.”

“Same as what?”

“As the champion I killed.”

There was a long pause. A slight tension weighed down upon the two, and Johnny calmly returned to his drink, sipping slowly and indulgently. He slowly put down his glass, sighed, and began to say, “I think ya shoul-”

Urlug then socked Johnny on the side of his temple. Johnny went straight down to the ground, crashing and sprawling in his descent. His eyes darted from corner to corner, trying to distinguish up from down and remember which side was what. He flung his arms and feet in sharp yet chaotic strikes, trying to return the favor.

Once his vision completely realigned, he stared at Urlug and snarled. Johnny quickly let go of his murderous intention when he saw what Urlug was doing. Urlug had his open hand gestured to not only Johnny’s glass but what appeared to be two similar and full glasses of the Baimon’s mountain alcohol. “No. I won’t kill you. You aren’t weak.”

While Johnny wasn’t entirely comfortable with this beast, free liquor was free liquor. Johnny stumbled up, catching himself on the counter. He eased himself back onto the stool, head still splitting. Glaring at the line of cheap booze, Johnny began to calculate whether the liquor could add to or reduce his splitting headache. Then he threw calculations out the window and threw each of the glasses down the hatch in quick succession. Coughing and sputtering after drinking all of the liquor in one go, Johnny’s pain turned into relief as the alcohol worked its warming magic. Johnny sputtered, “I’ll help ya, but I’ll need to grab some coin to pay off my debts.”

Urlug grinned. He began to open his mouth when Johnny interrupted, “But first, I need a better place to sleep.”

Urlug asked, “What do you..”

Then Johnny, overcome with exhaustion in combination with his sleeping aids and searing headache, slammed onto the counter and then onto the floor.

Only his snores indicated that he was still alive. Urlug stared, snorted, and turned to the bartender, “Will my winnings also cover a room and food?”