TWO

Get Off My Porch

After opening the inn and administering a size thirteen boot suppository to the child drawing graffiti on his front door, Dungar began to carry out his daily ritual of setting up his practice. This practice of setting up practice consisted of little more than unlatching the saloon doors of his entrance and then setting out the stools in front of his bar.

The bar was the only area within the inn for which he had any pride or affection. The walls were kept completely free of any paintings, lamps, or windows. Instead, every square inch was covered in intricate designs he hand carved by himself. Often they took the form of patterns tracing the grains of the wood, but some portions of the wall almost appeared to be murals of sorts. With a trained eye one could spot pictures here and there such as dragons or knights. The royal crest of the Theik royal family was also very plain to see carved right above the liquor cabinet, particularly the firefin piranha on the shield. One could also not help but notice many carvings of what appeared to be wizards hanging from trees and being burned at stakes hidden within the patterns.

Shortly after he had set out all the barstools a tell-tale shrill squeak of the door alerted him to his first, and often only, customer of the day. Ever so slowly the wizened old man shambled his way into the bar, leaning heavily on a cane that looked even older than he was.

“Mister Jitters, my friend. How are you this fine morning?” Dungar greeted enthusiastically.

Mister Jitters raised his non-cane hand and smiled a toothless grin before replying with an equally enthusiastic “Mrgrrglrglrlllrblr!”

For as long as Dungar had known Mister Jitters he had never heard the man make any noise that sounded like a coherent language. He had no idea what the man’s name was, or anything about him really. The name “Jitters” was merely derived from the fact that every single limb on the man’s body shook with violent tremors on a relatively constant basis, provoking the assumption that he was likely very ill or incredibly cold. The former seemed to be the most likely explanation, as Mister Jitters appeared to be at a very advanced age to the point that it’s questionable how he was even still alive.

However, irrespective of his appearance or conditions, Jitters had been coming to the inn regularly since the day it opened and, after much trial and error trying to figure out what the man was ordering, he became a steady consumer of every drop of aquavit that the innkeeper could produce. After that, the innkeeper began to genuinely cherish the company of the curious old man.

Jitters would patiently listen to anything he had to say, occasionally even responding with one of his usual guttural croaks. Occasionally Dungar found himself questioning the man’s sanity or lucidity, wondering if the man even was aware of himself or understood anything said to him, but those thoughts were usually quickly dismissed once he remembered how much money Jitters has dropped in his bar. Of course then that thought would lead him to question where a seemingly senile centenarian is getting all this money from, but he doubted he would receive an intelligible answer if he asked.

Unfortunately, Dungar’s soft spot for Mister Jitters was not usually shared by other patrons. For starters, his shaking condition caused his tankard to clang loudly against the table and often spill its contents on nearby bar dwellers. Secondly, while personal hygiene was not very well maintained by most people in these times, Jitters’ sanitary shortfalls were second to none. The stench that emanated from his pores was foul to say the least and deadly to say the most. Usually he would take it upon himself to simply retire into a corner away from the vicinity of the other bar dwellers. However on this day he opted not to move a muscle when the latest traveler graced the inn with his presence.

Dungar just happened to be out behind the inn fetching a rum barrel when the saloon doors swung open revealing a disheveled looking man wrapped in a tattered and soot-stained green cloak with the hood up. A shady looking character if there ever was one. Under the hood you could see his pronounced chin adorned with a thick bushy soul patch jutting out. He had a severe underbite which caused his lower lip to protrude noticeably farther than the upper which did wonders to pronounce the sneer on his face. He surveyed the inside of the bar, tracing the wood carvings with his eyes until they fell on the shaky old grey-haired man sitting at the bar, his tankard jingling loudly against the table.

The stranger removed his hood to reveal the face of a middle aged man with narrow eyes and a receding hairline. He had a noticeable scar underneath his left eyebrow which followed along the outline of his eye socket. Slowly he made his way to the bar, calmly and deliberately putting a little extra effort into each step as if to enhance the sound of his heavy boots banging against the floor.

As he reached the bar he took the stool next to Jitters, taking a moment to size the man up before his eyes made their way back to the tankard which continued to clank against the counter in rhythm with Jitters’ tremors. After a brief twinge of disgust crossed his face he turned his attention to the other side of the counter, which was still empty.

“Oi!” he bellowed at the empty space behind the bar, “I’m thirsty!”

His voice echoed in the silence of the empty tavern. It was hoarse with a faint rumble, he probably smoked a lot. The man scanned the bar once again but nothing had changed. He saw no shadows moving in the back nor did he hear anything except for the continued oscillating clashing of Jitters’ mug against the counter.

His patience finally worn, the man raised his hand and slammed Jitters’ clanging container against the table. Head still facing forward, Jitters’ quivering continued but the room was now completely silent.

The stranger’s eyes were now transfixed on the sheepish old man with a look of extreme antipathy. Narrowing his eyes he drew a breath to speak but stopped short when he felt a monstrous hand roughly clasp his shoulder. As he turned his head the stranger found himself face to face with the crazy eyes of the bearded brute looming over him. Seeing the man frozen in a wide-eyed expression before him, Dungar’s hostile gaze softened and he chuckled to himself as he walked around to the other side of the bar.

By the time Dungar had made his way back over to the liquor side, the stranger’s anxiety had decreased and he appeared comfortable again; which is why it came as a huge surprise to him when the innkeeper reached over the bar, grabbed a handful of his shirt, and jerked him out of his seat and halfway over the counter. Once again the stranger found himself staring into the pair of crazy eyes as they stared back at him. As their eyes locked and their noses touched a slight grin formed on Dungar’s face, and with audible amusement he growled at the man.

“Listen to me very carefully there, stranger. If you touch Mister Jitters’s mug again then I will pin your head against the bar, patiently wait for Mister Jitters to finish his beverage, then I’m gonna take that tankard and I’m gonna drive it through your skull. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal.” The stranger sputtered, staring at the ceiling.

Casually, Dungar tossed him backwards onto his seat. Despite the brief ordeal that just ensued, the stranger’s resolve did not appear to have weakened. He continued to eye his bartender curiously with a look of slight disesteem.

“You folks don’t have much law around here do you?” The stranger mused.

“Within these walls I am the law.” Dungar decreed. “Now I suggest you order a drink.”

The stranger grumbled something incoherent under his breath. “Fine then. I’ll take the strongest, most potent, and cheapest drink you’ve got.”

Eyes gleaming, Dungar smirked at him. “Unless you want a tall glass of my piss, I suggest you order something else.”

At this, his guest sighed briefly before smirking up at the bartender. Nodding his head towards Jitters he then mumbled “I’ll have what he’s having then, just give me a damned drink.”

Tensions rapidly decreased within the inn as the alcohol began to flow. Soon the initial contention between Dungar and his guests had been all but forgotten.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a real shady lookin’ character?” Dungar asked, as he slid yet another freshly filled tankard towards the cloaked man.

“More than you might think.”

“So do you have a name, stranger?”

“Seems you already know it.” He retorted, with an inebriated chortle.

Dungar paused cleaning a glass and gave him a puzzled look. “Stranger?”

Stranger chuckled again.

“Your name is Stranger … ?” Dungar repeated with skepticism as he set the glass down.

“Where I come from children are named based off of the impression their parents have of them.” Stranger explained nonchalantly. “My father didn’t want any kids.” He added with a sigh, still not looking up from his mug.

After a silent and awkward pause, he looked up expectantly. Dungar pondered the information provided to him briefly before he shrugged and resumed cleaning his glass.

“Ah I’ve heard worse.” He dismissed. “So Daddy didn’t love ya, it’s not as if you … I dunno … Watched an evil wizard destroy your home and murder your family or something.”

Stranger sat silently giving him a blank stare.

“… Did you?” Dungar asked awkwardly, detecting the tension in the room.

“No, no, certainly not.” Stranger admitted, eyes returning to his beverage. “I didn’t sit around and watch as it happened.”

Once again Dungar ceased polishing his glass and looked at Stranger, this time visibly agitated. Stranger met his look with his own defiant one.

“Come again?”

“You heard me.”

Dungar frowned at the offended man before him. His eyes then moved to the clasp on Stranger’s cloak. It was made of cheap iron, but bore the shape of a kingdom’s crest. Twin daggers crossed beneath a panther.

“You’re from the city of Farrawee?”

“Maybe. Might be better to call it the remains of the city of Farrawee now.” Stranger grumbled mournfully.

“Quit being such a pity whore and either tell me what happened or don’t!”

“I thought innkeepers were supposed to be wise and compassionate.”

“My job is simply to get you as drunk as your coin purse will allow.” Dungar informed him firmly. “Sympathy is not a service I sell. Either drink until you forget your problems or maybe go send word to King Ik pleading for assistance against whatever your problem is.”

“HAH.” Stranger scoffed loudly into the inn. “As if King Ik could possibly help my home.”

At this, Dungar grabbed hold of his cloak again. “I may not be the most patriotic guy around these parts, but if you come into my bar and start belittling my monarch then you’re gonna have a bad time.”

Stranger stared back into Dungar’s crazy eyes, but they no longer had any effect on him.

“Your king can’t even save his own kingdom!” he snapped.

Dungar’s pique briefly subsided in favor of amazement. Brazenness in the face of immediate physical danger was not something he witnessed in his clientele very often, so intimidation was a tactic that was usually effective. He glanced at Jitters but as usual the fidgety old man seemed completely oblivious to everything happening around him. Dungar turned his attention back towards the stranger.

“Well then, it’s been a while since we had a customer choose to leave through the window.”

With that, he wrapped a steely arm around Stranger’s neck and proceeded to drag him up the stairs to the second floor. Stranger kicked his feet against the floor and clawed at the arm but it was to no avail.

“No you don’t understand!” He choked.

“Perhaps you should help me understand then.” Dungar quipped, not slowing his pace.

Stranger continued to pull at his arm. Between wheezes and assorted choking sounds the only words caught were “can’t breathe!”

As they reached the landing at the top of the stairs, he kicked open the nearest door and hurled the now barely conscious man into it, causing him to land in a pile of dust. From floor to ceiling the room was filled with broken furniture and other assorted junk that Dungar had collected. Carved into the heap of debris there was a path leading across the room to a lone window frame on the far wall.

This was no ordinary window. This was his favorite window in all the land. It was from this window that he tossed cheats, troublemakers, and other various miscreants who evoked his instinct to impose his own brand of order. The glass was long missing and the frame had seen much abuse from previous incidents wherein the victim was too fat to fit or Dungar was too drunk to aim his tosses properly.

Looking out the window filled one’s eyes with a wonderful hilltop view of the edge of the oasis as the bank sharply turned downward before meeting with the sands of the desert. There was also a noticeable indent in the long grass which had been worn into it over time by the various perpetrators of incidents past. One glance out the window and, even after downing many drinks, Stranger was able to deduce what was going to happen next.

As Dungar’s colossal paw gripped his clothing again, Stranger managed to sputter “Your king cannot help because he’s likely already dead!”

Dungar, who had been winding up, stopped short.

“What?”

“He has been sick, really sick,” Stranger sputtered. “The same thing that did in my king has already set upon yours!”

Dungar remained frozen, processing the information.

Stranger gripped Dungar’s wrist. “Don’t do this!”

Dungar looked back at him, staring into his eyes with anguish. “But I have to.”

Stranger’s expression of fear changed to bewilderment.

“What?”

“Everyone’s expecting a window toss.” Dungar explained, stepping to the side to reveal a crowd of people that had formed in the doorway.

“It’s really one of the few forms of entertainment we get around here.” He amended.

Stranger began to stammer incoherently, trying and failing to convey his competing fear, surprise, and confusion.

“We’ll pick this up again in a moment, just close your eyes and relax the body.” Dungar comforted.

Suddenly everything turned to slow motion for Stranger, and the only sound he was able to make as he flew through the air was a drawn out “Noooooooo” which was effectively drowned out by the cheer of the crowd.