Someone Coming, Doing Worse

The bartender had waited long enough. He was neither accustomed to waiting nor accustomed to being made to wait. All night and most of the day, he served ore dogs their alcohol; a drunk mercenary with a story to tell rarely waited long to yield one. He was a nosy and dissatisfied man, and he liked to hear the exploits of people tougher and rougher than he. This woman, though, with her hair plaited tight against her scalp and her exposed skin a tangle of scars, was silent. She was three drinks deep and hadn’t spoken since requesting her first one. Her only solicitation was to fish more coin out of her pocket to slam on the counter. Most other ore dogs would have been drunkenly regaling the bartender with war stories and tales of lewd romps by now, but the one in front of him only sipped her clear alcohol in a slow and deliberate manner.

The bartender was about to fetch her another tumbler when she asked in a surprisingly soft voice, “Do you have any desserts?”

“After all you’ve drunk, you should have something more substantial than cakes,” the bartender said.

“I’m in my right mind, am I not?” she retorted. A hard edge entered her voice. “Tell me more about these cakes.”

The bartender hollered for a waiting girl, and a flop-eared young woman emerged from the kitchen. “Cake,” the bartender grunted at her and jerked his head in the ore dog’s direction. When the waiting girl disappeared back into the kitchen, he said, “Tell me a good enough story, and dessert can be on the house.”

“I’m sure I’ve got nothing new to tell you,” the woman said with a shrug. “I’m only one of hundreds of ore dogs to sit and drink.”

“To an old man like me, I’m sure that’s enough,” the bartender said.

“And to a tired dog like me, I’m sure that’s too much,” the ore dog retorted. She dug in her pocket again and slammed another few coins on the counter. “Something stronger,” she demanded.

“We’ve only got pure grain alcohol to top what you’ve been pouring back,” the bartender said, incredulously.

“That’ll do,” the ore dog replied.

“I should be cutting you off,” the bartender grumbled. “I’ve gone deep enough in your pockets already.”

“But a bartender can always go deeper, can’t he? That’s how you make your living,” the ore dog answered, forcing an overwide smile onto her face. It looked altered – pieced together, really – and sent a chill into the bartender’s bones. The bits of her face didn’t match; they were smiling all different smiles.

Still, the bartender held his ground. He hadn’t heard anything particularly new or interesting today, and he didn’t want this ore dog to pass out until he heard whatever she had to tell. Surely, she had something good if she were so tight-lipped, and anyone who could drink three tumblers of his strongest alcohol and still keep their head was worth hearing from.

“I’ve made my money for the day,” the bartender rumbled and crossed his arms over his chest.

In response, the ore dog leaned forward on her barstool and thrust her jaw forward in defiance. “Something stronger,” she said quietly.

“It’s been a bad day for stories, and I make the rules around here,” the bartender retorted, though he leaned back just an inch. “No more drink for you before you cough up what you’re about.”

The ore dog narrowed her eyes, and for a moment, the bartender was aware that he was an aging, balding man possessing only some skill with a knife. If this woman truly wanted another drink, she would have one. At that moment, though, the waiting girl returned bearing a chipped plate topped with a generous slice of cake. A bent fork jutted from its top.

“Here you go,” she chirped, setting the plate down in front of the ore dog. The ore dog offered her a tight smile in return, then dragged the coins left on the counter back into her grip. Before the waiting girl could leave, she caught her wrist and placed the coins in her palm. The waiting girl blushed, stammered her thanks, and disappeared back into the kitchen.

“No drink, then,” the ore dog said to the bartender and dug into her cake.

“What makes you so tightlipped?” the bartender grumbled.

The ore dog ignored him and continued to eat. Her way of eating was far more refined than any other ore dog the bartender had encountered, just as her way of drinking had been. She picked her way around the icing and chewed slowly, almost thoughtfully. All her focus was for the cake. When she was done, she pushed the plate toward the bartender and leaned forward.

“How much for the cake?” she asked.

“It can be free,” the bartender said.

“Don’t ask for things you don’t want,” the ore dog murmured. “I’ve killed people. Horribly.”

“And so has everyone else in this bar,” the bartender replied with a sweep of his hand. Off in a dim corner of his establishment, just barely in his view, one ore dog was beating the teeth out of another. The sounds of his mates cheering him on barely rose above the din of general merrymaking.

The ore dog at his counter spared the fight a glance and turned back to him. She shrugged and said, “As many drinks of your strongest alcohol.”

“Fair enough,” the bartender agreed.

The ore dog nodded her satisfaction, and the deal was struck. She leaned back in her barstool once more, then reached up and pulled aside the collar of her jacket and dingy shirt. Etched just below her collarbone, in black ink and scarring that stood out even against her dark skin, were the words, “Someone Coming, Doing Worse.” The bartender’s eyebrows shot up and his eyes grew wide. He had heard stories about that tattoo, and if they were true, he would owe this woman a great many more drinks before the night was up.