There's a surprising number of things that run through your head when you find yourself about to get punched in the face. As that enormous, scabby, hairy, meatball of a fist comes pummeling towards your delicate nose, it's as if time stands still. âWhere did this conversation go wrong? When was the last time this sand-trash washed his hands? What was it table 3 wanted again?â And then BAM! Fireflies are exploding out your eyeballs, everything goes fuzzy for a second, and that heap of 'bo dung is laughing his arse off right in front of you, swilling back more beer.
At least, that's what happened to me the firstâand onlyâtime a bar patron ever dared to land a fierce one to my face. I couldn't be expected to let that stand, could I? But here I am, getting ahead of myself.
The day had started pretty typically for me. Fresh bath, boots on, water the plants (that's not a euphemism!), some fish and tomatoes and coffee for breakfast, then on with my errands. Eventually, I made my way to the Staggering Centaur, a fine tavern in a decent part of town near the Market Wards where I worked as a bartender and waitress. The Centaur should have been mine to own, by rights. My mother bought it when it was just a ramshackle dive called the Ogre Belly and fixed it right up with years of hard work and love.
Then along came Casiri âMojo-fingersâ Fasiri. The greasiest, most unpleasant little Dunesfolk I've ever met. He gave himself the nickname. Mojo-fingers rolled into town about seven years ago looking to find an easy way into the Syndicate. He did so by bribing officials to raise up land rates and bogus fees just long enough to buy my mom out of the Centaur, which he quickly transformed into a hub for all of Ul'dah's lower-rung criminal social gatherings. Out of the kindness of his heartâor a disinterest in hiring new staffâhe kept on anyone from the old staff who would stay, including myself, at slightly lowered pay. I'd have liked to leave, but a girl's got bills to pay and in my young Miqo'te heart, I kept alive the hope that Mojo would get shot in the head someday soon and we could reclaim the bar for ourselves.
So I strolled into the bar that early evening, and it was evident on Mojo's face that it was going to be a busy day. He had his gil-counting thimble on, and was wearing his âhigh-rollerâ tinted glasses. What a turd. âHey, Blue!â He squawked at me. âGet those legs moving, girlie! This is not the night for sashaying around flirting with sweaty adventurers at your leisure. We've got a lot of people expected tonight. A lot of important, people, if you catch my emphasizing, and they're going to expect some decent service here. You got it?â
âYeah, yeah, keep your tiny shoes on.â
âI mean it!â
Business picked up fast, and as Mojo-fingers predicted it was just a bunch of âhis peopleâ i.e., skeevy louts looking for less-than-upright work. That meant high demands, lots of posturing, and very low tips. One group in the center of the bar was being particularly noisesome and demanding. A huge Highlander named Dirk and his mates of varying race and clan, drank tankard after tankard of our cheapest ale and made crude passes at anything with boobs within arm's reach. That included me, on multiple occasions.
âHey, sugartits, another round over here!â
The other patrons sniggered under their breath and eyed me with humor as I smiled under Mojo's stare and brought out another pitcher.
Begoodbegoodbegood, I chanted to myself like a mantra.
âThere you are boys, anything else I can get for you?â
âYeah, how about you get under the table and give us some real service! HA ha ha!â
âOh I'm afraid for that kind of service you'll have to talk to my boss, good sirs. That sort of thing is his specialty. Being so short as he is.â I pointed to Mojo-fingers who failed to hear my words from across the room and assumed I was making a big deal out of him. He puffed up his chest and waved a hairy hand at the table.
âOh get on!â Dirk said gruffly, turning back to his beer. Waitress: one, Drunken Louts: zero.
I moved on to Table Three.
The table's occupants, a young, black-haired Hyur woman and a dusky Miqo'te, were in the process of giving me their order when Dirk's whiskey-and-gravel voice sounded out across the tavern.
âThis food ain't fit for goat slop! You call this cheese? You call these buns?â I turned around just in time to see him pick up a fist-sized bun of bread from the platter and chuck it across the room with a flick of his wrist. Straight at my face.
That is definitely stale, I thought as I sunk to the ground, stunned from the blow. There was a moment when the room came to a complete stop. Not even a breath of air or the clink of a glass on the bar. Just shock and silence. Then the Miqo'te and the Hyur rushed to help me up and the spell was broken. The entire tavern burst into uproarious laughter. Even Mojo was holding himself up against the wall, gasping with delight at what had happened. That does it.
My blood seething, I spit out a prayer to the fury of Halone as I got to my feet and marched to Dirk's table, where his cronies were still chortling.
âSorry about that darlin', why don't you sit on my lap and let me make it up to you?â Dirk attempted to look debonair which on him resulted in a lecherous sneer.
âYou filthy, raptor-nosed, beady-eyed drunken sod!â I began. âYou couldn't even get a kobold whore to touch you if you paid her her weight in gil!â And with that I dumped an entire pitcher of low-grade beer over his head. Some people in the back actually applauded. It would have ended there, except one of Dirk's boys just had to get in the last jibe.
âYeah you'd know a thing or two about whorin' wouldn't ya?â
I turned and jumped full body into their group, fists pounding at whatever target of bone and flesh I could find. The surrounding tables got splashed with food and liquor and so they joined in, and swiftly a full-on tavern brawl erupted as everyone got in the spirit of beating up thy neighbor. Screaming, shouting, the smell of alcohol mixed with sweat and blood seemed to get everyone into an even bigger frenzy. Somewhere in the background I could hear Mojo-fingers shouting for everyone to stop, and I definitely heard one or two shots fired. I got some good punches in, too, before Dirk hauled me up out of the fray and landed his fist squarely to the middle of my face.
As much as I wanted to beat him and every one of his crew into the floor that night, Dirk had about a hundred pounds of muscle on me and a lot more fighting experience. I sank into painful blackness and a puddle of red ale as the city guards were streaming in through the door.
When I came to, the stars were reeling overhead. I was lying on my back in the sandy lot behind the bar. Mojo-fingers was glowering at me, tapping his foot impatiently.
âYou awake?â He asked. I nodded, slightly unsure. âGood. You're fired.â
Sitting up on my elbows and wincing I protested. âFired? What, over a brawl? We've had lots of those! You can't fire me!â
âI can and I just have! You embarrassed me in there. How's an up-and-coming crime boss like myself supposed to get any respect in this town if people see he can't even control one little waitress?â
âThis is my bar, Mojo! You can't do this!â My head felt so heavy and dry, I couldn't even begin to formulate a reasonable argument.
âWas your bar. It ain't been your family tavern in years, girl, now get out of here. You're done.â He spat on the ground and walked back inside, leaving me in the dust.
I scrabbled out of the dirt and struggled to my feet.
âHey go fuck an ogre, pal!â I yelled at the closed back door, my voice breaking from dehydration and pain. âI give you a month to run that place without me, tops! You think this is over?â
My voice echoed in the dark and empty lot, coming back to me in jagged, hateful gasps. In impotent rage I broke a few windows, kicked a few metal barrels, grabbed a lantern from its hook and threw it into the shadows of the building, catching fire to some dry scrub grass.
Just like that, I was expelled from what should have been my legacy. My childhood, my whole life, was in that bar, and some two-bit crook swiped it all away. A swarm of bloodied bees raced through my wounded head, clouding out everything but anger. All those years of playing along, pretending that working in a stolen bar was just fine and dandy, doing absolutely zero with my life.
I guess everyone has to grow up and leave home sometime, right? I'm still young, yet. Maybe it's time I stopped working for the bad guys in this city and started taking from them instead. It's how they got their starts, after all. Time to see a man about a gun.
