Rapscallion glowered across the bar to see Griselda, holder of the sacred Bar
Tab of Terror, Doom and Spiky Bits. "Thanks."
"I don’t mean in the normal sense of roughness, more in the sense of worse
than usual." Griselda paused in the act of wiping a dusty bottle of liquor
from an obscure climate. "You’re not still undead are you? You know I have
opinions about that.."
"Hardly. I remember what you did last time. Scruff still had cold cuts of me
a week later." Rapscallion shuddered and took another drink, hoping to wash
the memory away. "I can’t rotate my head all the way round, not unless a
newbie challenges me to arm wrestling again. Even then I had assistance."
Griselda’s expression suggested that she was keeping an open mind about
the validity of his claim, but she appeared willing to let it lie.
"What happened?"
Rapscallion grunted and took another drink. He knew where he was with ale.
It didn’t fight back, nor did it complain too much. It made the world feel
warmer for a while and didn’t burn the place down. Well, unless he fumbled
a fireball spell while showing off, of course..
"It all started with the forthcoming festivities," he began, eyeing the paper
chains and glittering ornaments with distaste. "I was just having a drink in
the Altruistica, sort of a between-binge quaff you understand, and this guy
comes in.
"Not just any guy - he had this jolly red suit and huge, white beard..
"Ho ho ho."
Rapscallion looked up in surprise. "I beg your pardon?"
"Don’t mind me - it’s just a reflex action by now," the old man in the red
suit said. He shrugged. "Just part of my chores, you see."
"What chores?" Rapscallion asked, realizing the trap too late.
"Very generous of you, I’m sure," the bearded man said. "Tankard of ale, not
too skimpy on the froth. Thank you very much."
Another day, another increment on the bar tab, Rapscallion mused. He nodded to
the barkeep who obligingly produced a fresh drink. It wouldn’t have been so
bad if it had been someone he knew, Rapscallion mused. There was one way to
rectify that, though, and maybe get some recompense.
"So, new to these parts?" Rapscallion hazarded. Get friendly and turn
them around.
"I pass through once a year or so. Decent ale here. Any mince pies?"
"No bar food, not since I invited a few zombies back for a midnight feast.
So, you’re a vagrant, eh?"
"Vagrant? Ho ho ho. Darn, must stop that. I’m off duty right now. No, I
go around checking on people every year, rewarding the good and punishing
the people who have been naughty - sorry is there a problem?" The old man
patted Rapscallion on the back until he stopped spluttering.
"Er, no. Not really. Er, just how naughty do you mean?" Rapscallion asked
cautiously.
"You know, being mean and unpleasant to people for no real reason, not
helping when you could, singing too loudly at night with very dubious
lyrics. That sort of thing."
'I’m doomed,' Rapscallion thought. "Er, are you very busy right now?" he
asked slowly.
"Well, there are certainly a few naughty people around here, but there
are a lot of nice ones as well. I’m awarding to both good and bad. Ho ho
ho. Darn that phrase - my wife left me over it. Can’t say that I blame her.
I'll get this round - what are you having?"
Rapscallion straightened up. Never one to look a gift drink in the price,
he said, "Bottle of Firebreather if you would be so good." Maybe if he was
numb then he wouldn’t feel the punishment so much. This guy must be staff.
It would account for the dress. Tales abounded of the expense accounts
afforded to them, and even if only a fraction of that were true then he may
be able to milk it for a few more bottles before the inevitable.
The drinks arrived and Rapscallion decided that it was time to do some
groundwork. "Do you enjoy your work?"
"Very seasonal. I have to fill in for the Town Crier in the summer months.
He’s been taking more and more breaks very year - I think it’s his age.
Still, it makes ends meet." The red-suited figure stared into his mug for
a while.
"I’ve been good," Rapscallion told him. The man looked up and appeared
slightly surprised. "I mean it. I’ve shown lots of newbies how to find
the taverns for the autoquests."
"That’s rather nice of you. Ho ho ho," the stranger said. He reached into
his wide, leather belt and pulled out a scrap of paper. Rapscallion gulped.
"According to records, you owe lots in each of them, even those in unopened
zones. Impressive."
"Er, just making sure that they work," Rapscallion protested. That familiar
sinking feeling was back and making itself known.
"My word, but you’re not sitting on my lap," the stranger said. "Have you
seen this list? Demanding drinks with menaces, threatening death by filk,
getting beaten up by janitors.. this is really a very naughty list." For a
moment the man appeared about to say ‘Ho ho ho’ but held it back with an
effort.
"What does that mean?" Rapscallion asked nervously.
"What did it mean?" Griselda asked, spellbound by the tale.
"A lump of coal," Rapscallion replied.
"And that put you into that state?" she asked in surprise. "I mean, it stains
clothes and all that, but you’re.."
"He seemed to think that I’d been really naughty and deserved a ‘special’
lump of coal. It weighed about three tons or so and it’s keeping a sizable
portion of the Mage’s Quarter in fuel this winter." Rapscallion peered into
his empty tankard meaningfully and Griselda obligingly refilled it.
"And then you came here to drown your sorrows," she said, looking around her
Holosection tavern."
"Not directly," Rapscallion replied with a savage grin. "See, I went to the
stables first and found his transport - a sleigh drawn by reindeer of all
things. How silly is that? We don’t get much snow around here.. Anyway, the
old git came out, saying ‘Ho ho ho darn’ for all he was worth, but by that
time I’d managed to make his lead reindeer drink that bottle of Firebreather.
He took to it like a fish takes to swimming, even ending up with a red nose."
"And then?"
"I hid in the shadows, and as the old fool sat down I whipped out a staff
of quickness and shoved it into the lead reindeer’s.. harness," Rapscallion
said, catching Griselda’s look. "It will be about the right time now. Watch
this." Rapscallion strode to the window and peered out through the frost.
In the inky darkness above, a glittering white streak burned its way across
the heavens. Rapscallion squinted and could just make out the red tip at the
very head of the comet. "There he goes, again," he muttered.
"I don’t believe a word of it," Griselda breathed, "but the next drink is
on the house for the story."
Copyright (c) 1992-2018 Medievia.com, Inc. All Rights Reserved
Mudslinger is a trademark (Tm) of Medievia.com, Inc. No portion of the MudSlinger may be reproduced without the express written consent of Medievia.com, Inc.
