“What kind of good bars are there around here, boy?” Trutt didn’t care much for what others thought of him. Amongst the great tragedies in his life this was really a problem he chose to not have.

His wife was lost to him, his sons had to have grown up without him and so too were his people lost to him until Stark could find Trutt a way back. So, until that day came, manners were for other people, and they could be damned.

Most assumed that because of his accent he was pronouncing his name as “Trutt” and meaning Trutt. So for the last one hundred and twelve years here in these lands he had gone by “Trout.” But he hated it, hated it so much that he spent too much time, early on, correcting people. But his resolve had been beaten down with time, and so now he was known far and wide as “Trout.” So be it, he thought.

It was a minor point when he took into consideration every other part of his life, but it was his to mull over, and so regularly, he did. But he preferred to do so in more pleasing surrounds, and so, on these very fraught days, he tended to frequent topless bars. And if that made the goony lummox uncomfortable, then so be that, too.

Standing in the kitchen as Cole bustled about fixing a late snack for Ellen and presumably ‘Tj’Chin‘Ker, Trout saw that his favorite whipping boy was sitting at a small table in one of the houses many small rooms set off from the main dining room, and grand foyer that dominated the front half of the first floor. It looked like the studious man was deeply embroiled in some paperwork.

Kurt Weathers had worked for Elgin Stark since he had been in his early teens as a gopher. Over the years the tall, gangly, gawky lad had filled out, added inches to an already impressive height, and moved up in responsibilities.

While Trutt had traveled the world on Stark’s various errands, he had also managed to slip in his own business, and was able to pursue his own lines of research. Trutt would always come back to what he had begun to think of as “Home Base” in the safety of Stark’s many layers of protection.

While it had been some time since he had last seen the shy young man, he always took pleasure in needling him. Easy targets rarely came so big as this, and now the young man had gone from an awkward beanpole to a fully realized scarecrow. Trutt could feel his mood turn. He wanted to harass the young man. He wanted to take all of his frustrations out on someone, but Cole would be leaving soon, he knew.

It wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t how he comported himself most of the time, but there were moments when his situation had Trutt grinding his teeth so hard the only cure he knew how to access was to make his ill mood someone else’s misfortune. Kurt was a Wahruhme. Amongst the myriad races of humanity, they were known all over the world, and by many names, though they tried to get the other races to call them “Dragons.” Few did. Most would even laugh when it was suggested.

And that laughter usually started a fight. A brutal fight. More often than not.

Most referred to them as Trolls, a few referred to the Wahruhme as Orcs and Ogres, some called them Giants; more still tried not to call them at all, lest they find the surly, hulking beings attention being drawn to themselves.

The younger ones, like Kurt, were all tall, hard edges, boney, and broad shouldered; all of them generally huge, rugged, handsome young men once they had outgrown their awkward teen phases …thank the goddess they were so few amongst the population…

They all aged poorly though by the standards of the other Fringe Peoples, as many referred to themselves. The older the men got, the thicker and scalier their skin became, the planes of their faces spreading wider, and evincing harder edges, their feet and hands often broadening disproportionately. Trutt would have said comically, if not directly to their faces.

Some older Wahruhme still went out in public, passing off their rougher looks as skin conditions and genetic anomalies nowadays; it generally worked, too. The Last Race, the race that thought it was the only race, rarely looked at the extraordinary, even when it was across the counter from them at the local fast food joint, directly in the eye. Humans were bad at eye contact. It went way back, probably all the way back, easily before Stark even.

The Chieftains, their word, among them never ventured out in the open during daylight that he had ever seen. Stark had once explained that hormonal changes when they took on leadership roles did odd things to the Wahruhme leaders, much like happened to orangutan alpha males. Fleshy cheek plates, overlapping ridges of skin, extended teeth, bony plates on the backs of hands and feet, all resulted from a male Wahruhme becoming a leader in his community.

It just confirmed for Trutt the ridiculous nature of both “leading” and of the Wahruhme.

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At the time Trutt, when Stark had originally explained it to him, Trutt had known nothing about orangutans, so he just nodded at the explanation; who wants to look dumb in front of the boss?

Kurt was very broad shouldered, very tall, and aside from a noticeable tendency for his hands to look like they were made from stone, and slightly larger than average ears, Trutt would have had to admit the lad was very handsome; though Trutt noticed a slight receding of the younger man’s hairline and cragginess to his features that looked new to him. It was making Trutt smile.

“So, biggo, any good blue rooms in the area?” He said to the younger man as he sauntered towards where he sat working. “Or did the boss get them all closed to keep out the bad elements?”

He knew Stark wasn’t a prude, but he also knew the man was the best manipulator of local politics he had ever seen.

A slow smile spread over the huge man’s face as he turned his head slightly and looked down at his most ardent tormentor outside of his own family. “Yeah, they're all still around. Some more have even opened up, if you’re willing to go as far as Petersburg. But the ones on Hull are still the most convenient. Some of the best dancers, too.”

Trutt was taken aback. The boy wasn’t more than twenty five, and from a very affluent family. It was hard to believe that in the year and a half he had been gone Kurt had managed to shed his shy nature, and get to know the area strip joints without blushing himself to death.

He raised his eyebrow skeptically at the lummox before him. But before he could muster another dig at Kurt’s expense, the lad broke in. “Don’t be so quick to jump, rabbit. Mr. Stark is fine with topless bars and strip clubs in his town. He says it gives the locals an outlet; those eager types get to go look at the pretty skins, and those who are … over eager… to get to rail at something. The city makes money, the police can afford to keep the piece and everyone is happy.”

The rabbit remark rankled, but he did his best not to show the hit Kurt had scored. The cockiness he saw in the boy was new. It was something to file away for later.

“Fine, and dandy, young’en; I’m looking for the highest quality with the loosest rules. What have ye?” Trout knew he was pushing his luck, but he had to see how far this shiny new confidence went.

“I would try The Box&All, if I were you. It was taken over by an old friend of Elgin’s about six months ago. He knows how to run a party, open and private, and he knows where his bread is buttered; be sure to tell the door you work for Elgin. If they don’t believe you, show them your ring. You…still have your ring, right?” At this, the younger, taller man raised his eyebrow. “They’ll escort you directly to one of the private rooms for a quick meet with Di.”

The musing features of the monolithic man sitting in the chair before him rapidly changed to an almost beatific smile. His mouth stretched farther from side to side than Trutt had ever expected the formerly dour and reclusive boy to smile.

…Di…rings a bell…what do I know about Di…AHA!

Trutt’s mind ran over everything he knew about “Di” before speaking. He didn’t want to walk into any pranks the “eternal boy” might set for him; Goddess knows I’ve earned it from him, though… “Would this be the same Di that runs your father’s businesses?” He knew there was a trap, and if it was a ploy to get him to go to one of the clubs the elder Weathers owned, he would try somewhere else for tonight’s entertainment.

“Di owns the club free and clear, no strings to dad. He quit my Pop’s concerns, all of them, about a month before he bought that old ice cream and noodle place over on campus and turned it into a discrete strip club. When the fall semester started, he began making money by the buckets.”

Kurt started laughing to himself at some fond remembrance; it looks genuine to Trout, but he was leery. He had never actually met Marvin Weathers, but the man was the worst sort of tyrant by all accounts and would never let someone as competent as Di leave him to open a competing concern.

“Pop knew Di wanted to open his own club, and tried to stop him. It got nasty. Elgin stepped in, told dad to simmer. Dad didn’t like it, but Di is apparently family to Mr. Stark, when Pop forced the issue, Elgin stepped on his neck.”

If Kurt’s smile grew any wider, the top of his head would fall off; the boy’s teeth looked like giant white tiles to the shorter, much older, man. Now Trout had what was off in his sights. “Oh ho, son! You’ve been out from under daddy’s thumb ever since, eh boy?”

Now he could feel his own smile threaten the top of his head. All comeuppances, nasty and nice, made him feel better. While he never liked the boy, it was more a racial tension than a personal dislike; he knew his bigotry was old fashioned, but it was his very own, damn it!.

Some things are hard to shake, especially as he grew older; the big two-oh-oh was right around the corner. “Getting out there? Finding a horde of your own?” Kurt’s face darkened as fast as the words were out of Trout’s mouth. “My search is my own, rabbit.” His suddenly down turned mouth looked hard enough to crew iron and not need a dentist.

“Go on now, see Di, if you want to get your …pebbles… off. It’s over on Grace and Shafer, if you look up even you can’t miss it. Hope you’re not near sighted, Bunny-man.” The big man stood to an impressive height, turned and wandered back toward the kitchen.

As he opened the kitchen door to leave, he threw over his shoulder, “Found your hammer yet? Why don’t you try the top shelf… any top shelf? Oh, right! Things up high! Not your strength, is it?”

He didn’t know whether to laugh at Kurt’s genius, or cry in repressed fury at the cuts he had just taken from somebody an eighth of his age.