A Cold One: Prologue

No one from the real, fictional or alternate universes is present in here. At least, not to my knowledge. If they are, Hello.




Raven’s Left eye

The Raven’s Left Eye is a tavern, right in the middle of Baltimore. Baltimore is like all other cities in Wyrd. It is grimy, corrupt and decadent. A symbol of glory that will never return and such a long fall from grace that it was hobbled forever. It is flatulent at the core and coarse at the edges. 

The tavern is run by Inert Callo, a veteran of the Thousandth War. He is gruff but fair. He doesn’t care who carries out what business in his bar. He gets them their drink and food and stays out of their hair. No one messes with Callo. Even the most hardened punks stay away from him. He is bad luck.
A seovangelist once pushed Callo in anger. Three days later Callo put him in the hospital with a tube in his nose and a glass in his chest.

The tavern is not crowded tonight. A snowstorm hit the town. Very few people are inside. 

Baltimore ‘Balt’ Mooney sat near the jukebox. He had red tea-shades, neck and hands wrapped in green cloth and sported an agonizing look common on people with moral compasses. A frayed University of Glass coat hardly protected against the groping cold which is why he was holding on to a flask of Nordic. The jukebox had a spear’s shaft sticking through it. There was entertainment though.
Local sensation and raging alcoholic Sol Niel was sitting right next to him. For a woman with a voice, she was not very attractive. The fact that she was talking to Mooney for the past hour was not helping her case.

“Shut off those thoughts they do you no good”, she said, looking at Mooney. Mooney didn’t look at here. He did not want to talk to her. So, he went with, “You say I love you and I say you should.” She was glad at least someone remembered the lyrics to her one-hit wonder. He was glad she stopped talking.

At the back of the bar sat Colm Rankin, shuffler of organs and books. His was an eclectic clientele and this tavern was an ideal place to conduct business.

In another corner, lay Jo Acetone, local thug whose primary business concerns included picking fights, passing out in the street and occasionally, fighting for money. He had been disqualified from the game that night as he had implied that a promoter had unhealthy relation with pigs. That promoter Edwig van Borren, had punched Acetone and was banned too. He sat right opposite Acetone.

The crowd was rounded out by Gregory and Mauray sitting in the corner. Gregory was a llama. He dealt in drugs. He was popular in this part of town. Mauray was a cook in the tavern.

The storm had been raging for a while. Suddenly, there was a crack and the lights went out. There was a muffled thump and a crashing sound. Mooney got up. Callo had rigged up some emergency light source and was standing in the middle. Everything looked alright to Mooney. But it was not. There was a bleat from the dark corner in which Acetone was. It was Gregory.

“Acetone is dead. Man, he dead. Gone.” After this short speech, Gregory promptly threw up.

Mooney was scrabbling at the door. Pulling at it. It did not budge. Mooney turned, faced them all and said, with as much gravity as he could muster in his voice, 

“The day has been kept out. We are snowed in. We are trapped. Trapped in a room with a murderer.”

glossary:

Wyrd is an island in the Nordic Ocean. It might be on some version of Earth.

The Thousandth War as the name suggests was the 1000th war fought. As usual, nobody won.

Seovangelists are basically roaming heralders of the future. They can be hired to make you famous.

The University of Glass is a reputed university in Mirpur, Southern Wyrd. It teaches nothing of any practical use.

Llamas were a religious minority in Baltimore. They walked on 4 legs, roamed naked and talked like men.

Crab was the only drug of any concern on Wyrd.