( The trouble with a beautiful woman in this kind of establishment where fleas, gore and human or animal vermin are served indiscriminately is — this is the third gentleman who approaches Hector with questions over the nightly going rate of his delightful feminine companion.
He's tried, valiantly, to suggests she pimps herself out, if anything. So far, his business qualifications remain undisputed.
At least, so far, these would-be pursuers have all discovered the decency to start their entreaties with bribes of hard drink. Hector, by now relieved of enough of his senses to philosophically ponder the bubbling, red-green-brown-swirling contents of his latest alcoholic gift, hasn't been put down by the crowds, the clutter, the occasional glimpse of severed fingers, or the liberal talk of someone's close relatives, culled last week — a little soured wine sounds almost attractive.
To hear a warning is not the same as to heed it. ) It can't be that bad.
( But he drinks, mouth virginal and wholly unprepared for the deluge of briny, putrid sadness that cauterizes both his taste buds and will to live in one fell, cloying swoop. Good God, it's in his mouth and somehow reeks. It's sliding down, at once liquid and gelatinous. It is, quite possibly, alive.
He thinks his innards have died and been reborn again, by the time he sets the cup back down on the table, blinking owlishly at the woman. )
...it was worse. It was... so much worse. How could it be so much worse?
tavern
( The trouble with a beautiful woman in this kind of establishment where fleas, gore and human or animal vermin are served indiscriminately is — this is the third gentleman who approaches Hector with questions over the nightly going rate of his delightful feminine companion.
He's tried, valiantly, to suggests she pimps herself out, if anything. So far, his business qualifications remain undisputed.
At least, so far, these would-be pursuers have all discovered the decency to start their entreaties with bribes of hard drink. Hector, by now relieved of enough of his senses to philosophically ponder the bubbling, red-green-brown-swirling contents of his latest alcoholic gift, hasn't been put down by the crowds, the clutter, the occasional glimpse of severed fingers, or the liberal talk of someone's close relatives, culled last week — a little soured wine sounds almost attractive.
To hear a warning is not the same as to heed it. ) It can't be that bad.
( But he drinks, mouth virginal and wholly unprepared for the deluge of briny, putrid sadness that cauterizes both his taste buds and will to live in one fell, cloying swoop. Good God, it's in his mouth and somehow reeks. It's sliding down, at once liquid and gelatinous. It is, quite possibly, alive.
He thinks his innards have died and been reborn again, by the time he sets the cup back down on the table, blinking owlishly at the woman. )
...it was worse. It was... so much worse. How could it be so much worse?