Smuggling in this city just ain’t what it used to be.
Harold Maxing leaned back in his stool at the bar, and surveyed his fellow patrons. More and more of the weird-uns showed up every day, and since the upper crust had no mind to deal with them they infested the area Harold had called home. They had even started to serve that fungal brew the little hair-soles loved! Harold threw back his head and guzzled the rest of his beer, nothing he could do about their new stranglehold on the under lands, at least not much. An attractive young waitress crossed the room towards Harold and caught his eye.
Mild confusion washed over him, even at the best of times, which this certainly wasn’t, his looks were better compared to that of a Golluk than a human. He looked around to see if some fine gent from the upper roads had somehow stumbled into his drinking hole, but saw that there wasn’t, and also saw that she continued in his direction.
“I have that drink you ordered sir,” she said in a voice with far more kindness than Harold was used to hearing. A hair flip, Harold noted, last time he had been with a woman she had been able to do that with a mole on her chin.
“I didn’t order any drink.”