Ale, Pie and a Frying Pan

Morcant was once again in his favourite tavern, in his chair, supping on his twelfth tankard of the evening and feeling quite merry. He was in the process of bellowing for another when Corbin plonked himself down next to him, clutching three gold coins in his palm and eagerly ordering himself a drink.

"Yew wunt ter watcherseff' with them coin'sh in 'ere, mate," the Justiciar slurred, taking his next tankard and paying for it in coppers, slum-accent thicker when lampshaded. "Ain't no ord'nary day where people go shpendin' gold innere."

"Yew g'na mug me fer th'Queen's Advisor's coins, big'un?" Corbin asked, stuffing the much-change into his pocket as the barkeep admired the gold shiney.

Morcant lifted one hand, not intending to wave it, but hardly able to hold it all that still. "I ain' triflin' wid that vishus bitch," he answered, hand going over his heart solemnly. "Beshidesh, she'sh my friend. Wot she pay yew for, eh? That 'usband o' 'er'sh not doin' 'is job proply, eh?" Followed by thunderous, Hellishly deep, raucous laughter that clearly stated he found his joke quite funny.

"Fine piece o'cunny tis, mate, but s'not why she paid me," he grinned, lifting his drink and admiring the colour of it. "B'sides, she'd not 'ave ter pay me. She c'n dine off m'meat any time 'er likes."

Apparently, Van Gatt found that highly funny, too, as he laughed and thumped the smaller man's shoulder 'playfully'. Likely enough to give him dead arm, however. "She'd bite th'fuckin' thing off," he rumbled. "If yer doin' werk fer that woman, yew watchersself. Nasty piece o'work." He drained his tankard, belched with aplomb, and then rifled around in his purse.

"Ey, I'll getcher next'un," Corbin protested. "T'ain't like I ent got funds these days. I tells yer, m'giant friend, she c'n be as vicious an' nasty as 'er likes. She keeps payin' me like this I'll be an 'appy drunk fer t'rest o'me life."

Van Gatt grinned brightly. "I like yew," he announced, rubbing his hands together in preparation for the next serving. "Yew off a-cuntin' t'night?"

"I'm allus off a-cuntin'," Corbin sneered. "Yew? Share wun if yer likes, which end'jer want? Lower, I'd reckon. Yer'd choke a bint I'd bet."

Morcant received his drink with a broad grin, shaking his head some. "Nah mate," he answered. "That's m'woman's job. She don't do no chokin', mind." Cue a dark chuckle that was thoroughly perverted, and thoroughly self-satisfied.

"Ha! Just cos yer got wun don't mean yer can't 'ave a few more, I say," he commented, sticking his lip over the rim of his tankard for a horseish quaff.

"Quality o'er quannity," he answered, gulping down the foaming liquid.

"Aye? She easy onna eyes?"

"Ugly as sin," Van Gatt replied candidly, lifting one hand and circling his thumb and forefinger until there was a very tiny bit of space between them. "But these 'ere 'ores all 'ave wizards' sleeves fer fannies. My woman's gorra vice."

"Yer safe ifyer dewit from be'ind, then," Corbin sneered. "Still! T'ain't nowt wrong wi' a bloke dippin' 'is wick, is there?"

"Promised 'er I'd not," Morcant told him, digging into one of his coat pockets and fishing around for a rumball from in there. He removed it, popped it into his mouth, and chewed around a mouthful of ale.

"Wotcher go an' do a stupid thing like that fer? Yew in luv widder or summint?"

Van Gatt finished his drink, plopping the glass back down on the bartop and clapping a hand on his drinking buddy's shoulder. "Aye," he answered. "May'ap I is. I'm in 'ere most nights, getcherself down 'ere more offen."

"Willdo, mate - s'yer name?"

"Van Gatt," the man-monster answered, slamming the tavern door behind him as he left. Only then did Corbin pale, realising just who he'd had a conversation with. That woman had friends in unusual places.

Van Gatt weaved home, singing an uproarious song to himself on the way, belching and hiccuping to punctuate it. Home, right, home. Act sober for the little woman.

He opened the door to the townhouse the Advisor's money had purchased, stepping inside and clumsily kicking off his boots with several muttered 'gerroff yer fucker's at greater intensity the more he got irate with them.

"Van Gatt!" a voice screeched from the kitchen. Was that apple pie he could smell? "Yew best not be drunk or so 'elp me I'll whack yer face off wid this fryin' pan!"

The front door closed, and some mumbling, a smooching sound and a scuffling sound later, said frying pan clanged against something that sounded a bit like a rather empty and drink-addled skull.