Ain't No Rent Gonna Ruin My Day

The Barbed Pickle was the most happening tavern in north Mandara. It had a sign on the door that said "No wimps allowed. Any wimps found on the premises will be berated, humiliated and bullied so hard that they'll run away crying like a baby." It was a pretty big sign. Inside was a rowdy time. An orc and a dwarf were in the middle of a bar fight that many patrons surrounded.

"Take this you shitty-ass shitty shit!" shouted the first orc, Vic. Vic was big, even by orc standards. He had green skin and a long brown beard adorned with many manly braids and cool stuff, like the skull of the last guy whom he fought in the very same bar and a toothbrush in case he had to holla at bitches and his breath still reeked of blood. Vic wore a menagerie of armor composed of different pieces of armor from the many people he has defeated in single combat. He even had two different shoes from a dwarf and an elf. Because this is fantasy, both shoes fit anyway. Vic swung his mammoth-sized fist at the dwarf he was fighting and knocked him back. Vic laughed. The dwarf got up on his feet.

"Oh yeah?" said the dwarf. "Oh, boys!" Suddenly five dwarves standing on one another's shoulders wearing a trench coat approached Vic from behind. They brought down a champagne bottle on his head, knocking him unconscious immediately. Vic would later be hospitalized and die of an untreated aneurysm. Nobody cared because this story wasn't about that guy anyway. And remember, when you go to The Barbed Pickle, you sign away both your life and your safety. Seriously, there's a guy at the door that makes you sign a waiver upon entering. Mandara is just teeming with litigation these days.

At another corner of the tavern sat a goblin rogue, spinning a dagger on his hand. He wore a black spandex bodysuit with brown cowboy boots and a sleeveless denim jacket. He also had a cool moustache and a scar across his nose. An ettin approached him and slammed his club on the rogue's table, smashing his drink and sending splinters flying everywhere.

"Hey Paul!" said the first head of the ettin. "Your rent is three months overdue! I'm gonna start breaking limbs!"

"I don't exactly appreciate you smashing my table and spilling my ale, Jatherius," said Paul the rogue, calmly.

"I don't appreciate you freeloading on our property!" said the second head, Samson.

"Alright, how about we strike a deal? You walk yourself on over to the bartender, order me another drink, and maybe we can call it even," said the rogue, still spinning the dagger.

Jatherius' eyes went red with fury. He raised his arm to strike the rogue down with the club. Paul saw this and threw his dagger at the ettin's arm. It stuck right in and severed Jatherius' motor nerves. The arm, now limp, fell downwards and the club hit Jatherius and Samson in their four balls.

"Ah, fuck!" they both shouted as they fell to the ground in pain. Paul got up and removed his dagger from Jatherius' massive arm. "Oh god, why?!" Paul searched the ettin's barely conscious body and found a large sack of gold. "What do you think you're doing with that, you thieving son-of-a-bitch?!" said the ettin. Without a word, Paul stabbed Jatherius in his neck. Blood pooled out all over the floor as Samson tried to stem the blood flow.

"Dude, stop bleeding! You're bleeding my blood too!" said Samson, but it was too late. Soon Jatherius went pale and, not long after, Samson went pale as well. Paul slammed the bag of gold on the counter. Everyone in the bar was about ankle deep in ettin blood.

"A round of mead and ale for every motherfucker in this tavern!" he shouted as the whole bar let loose a raucous cry. Everybody got wasted off their ass and everybody got buck. Paul went back to his seat at the broken table and calmly sipped his ale, which had been suspended in midair this whole time.

He looked at the corpse of his landlord and muttered under his breath, "Paul don't pay no rent to nobody."

THE END