Bastard for Hire

BASTARD-FOR-HIRE
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AN ERO THE UNDYING TALE

Chapter 1 – Why Can’t I Just Have a Quiet Drink Anymore?

Across the Warmlands - or, indeed, any other plane with sentient life - there are taverns, or the local equivalent thereof, that invariably attract patrons of a more criminally-inclined nature.  The sort of people who would cheerily murder their own mother for a handful of currency; who would strike a man - or woman - down for the seemingly minor crime of "looking at me funny"; and who would consider thieving to be an honest job with good hours and prospects of promotion.  These places are usually in an undesirable part of the town, city or spaceport.  Or at least somewhere that nobody goes without good reason and possibly an armed escort.  The lighting is always low so that nobody has to see the floor and can assume that the sticky puddle that they just trod in is nothing more unsavoury than a spilt beer and that the things that keep crunching beneath their - probably hobnailed - boots are just wood chippings; and furthermore so that the bar staff - brave and hardy individuals that they are - don't have to see too much of the almost-certainly scarred and disfigured faces of their clientele and can thus plead plausible ignorance when asked by a person of law if they have "seen this man/woman/thing".  The ceilings will tend towards exposed beams or other structural workings with little to no insulation - after all, these are not places where you would profess to feeling "a bit chilly" unless you had a death-wish and up-to-date life insurance.  The decor will be austere in the extreme and the furnishings will be threadbare, ramshackle, and replaced on a regular basis due to breakages.  However, contrary to Movie-Law, the average chair is marginally stronger than the average head... for the first few impacts at least.  Glasses are replaced with even greater frequency, such that even with the bartender's likely tendency to use "Spit & a Rag (tm)" as a cleaning aid they won't have time to develop any life more intelligent than the bar's patrons.  The beer options will be "beer..." and not so much bought as rented for a few hours.  The washrooms we will not even delve into except to say that they, in all likelihood, have developed life more intelligent than the customers.  Another common feature of these establishments is that they will have an agreement with the local dog-food factory, dead-collector or suchlike or will conveniently back onto a deep or at least fast-flowing river.
This squat, ugly and decidedly run-down structure on the leeward edge of the squat, ugly and decidedly run-down town of Willemstadt is just such a tavern.  Towards the back there is a booth that somehow manages to be dark and dingy, even in a room that is already definitely "dark and dingy" and cut off from the outside world - and fresh air - by a short set of heavily worn stone steps and a solid, wooden door - only just installed after its predecessor was smashed in an especially rowdy bar brawl. 
And, sprawled in that booth, his booted feet crossed at the ankle and resting on the bench he sits upon, his fine, feathered chapeau tilted forward and down to shade his features from all but the most suicidally-persistent of on-lookers and his eyes following the hypnotic movements of Lurleen, the bar’s squirrel barmaid, and her delectably swaying rear as she weaves through the pressing throng of drunken customers, is a cat.  The cat goes by many monikers, a goodly number of which cannot be repeated in polite company, but we shall refer to him by the name that himself most commonly claims to go by.  His name is Ero and he is a bastard.  More importantly, he is a bastard-for-hire.  I feel it pertinent at to point out at this juncture that I do not mean by this that he will – for a fee – arrive unannounced at weddings or other important parties and claim to be the lovechild of the bride, groom or guest of honour.   I mean that, for a very reasonable fee – or sometimes “unreasonable”, depending on the job in question and how many corpses it’s likely to involve – he will happily carry out a variety of dastardly criminal activities on behalf of someone else; including but not limited to murder, theft, arson, rape, stalking, loitering with intent, jaywalking and genocide.  In fact, he is not just plain old “Ero” but “Ero the Undying”.  Or even “Ero the Destroyer”, “Ero the Scourge of Six Hills Valley”, “Ero the Rapist of St. Isaac’s Convent” and “Ero the Bastard Who Owes Me Fifty Silver I’ll Kill Him If I See Him”.  Right now, however, he is simply “Ero the Bored and Jobless” and he’s currently just killing time in his favourite haunt, waiting for either some excitement or a job or, ideally, both in one nice and convenient little package.  With a wistful sigh, the moggy finished the last of his pint of watered-down beer – able to be called that only because nobody in this town had heard of the Trade Descriptions Act – and stood slowly but gracefully from the unpadded bench.  Then, empty and battered pewter tankard in paw, he made his way leisurely over to the bar, where Lenni the landlord was using a filthy rag to move the dirt on the bar around so as to ensure that it had a nice, even coating.  Ero’s intent was merely to get a refill without paying but, after only a few short steps across the sticky, warped and largely rotten boards of the tavern’s floor, he was intercepted by a fall-down-drunk bear who slurred aggressively at our heroic protagonist.
“Oi!  Gerroutofmefugginway!  Ya dumsunnuva-“ Ero’s response - a sharp kick to the ursine’s leading kneecap followed by the time-honoured pub-brawl tradition of using his mug as a large and painfully effective knuckleduster – was far from his usual adroit repartee but nevertheless served a purpose.  As the hairy oaf crashed loudly to the floor, drunken slurs still bubbling from his broken mouth, Ero regarded his somewhat ruined tankard with mournful eyes before making those few, final yards to the bar with no further interruption.  Indeed, having seen the speed with which the bear was put to the ground by someone half his size, the considerate people at the bar had even made the unanimous decision to shuffle to one side and clear some space for the chapeau-wearing felid fella.  It took him a few moments to catch the landlord’s eye – the grizzled old raccoon only having one eye left to catch and that being on the other side of his short snout from Ero – and when he finally did, the reaction was less than conducive to fulfilling Ero’s epic quest.
“Gah!  No, not again!  There’s no more bloody room on your tab until I see some coin!” Snapped the tender, flicking his bacterial-breeding-ground of a bar cloth at the moggy’s paws as they rested upon the counter, cutting Ero off before he could even start.
“Lenni, Lenni, Lenni...” Began our hero, his paws raised in a conciliatory manner and his tone gentle and smooth as silk. “Lenni.” He added, for emphasis. “I have no doubt as to your adamantacy with regards to my henceforth lack of remuneration vis-à-vis lended monies for the purpose of pursuing the purchasing of purportedly inebriative beverages.  And as such I feel honour-bound to offer this humble chunk of pewter as a means to recuperate some of my access to your most munificent financial forestalling.”  With that most flowery and barely-intelligible of lies, Ero presented the sorry-looking and heavily misshapen tankard to Lenni and smiled magnanimously, his pearly-whites glinting in what little light the numerous sweaty candles dotted around the back shelves of the bar threw forth.
“That” began Lenni “is one of my tankards.  And it’s goin’ on yer tab!”
“But dear Leonard, I thought you said there was no more room on my tab for any further additions?” Asked Ero, his voice dripping with feigned innocence.  The raccoon tender growled with annoyance and grabbed the nearest heavy object to hand, launching it at his most antagonising of patrons.  Rather conveniently for the drink-seeking feline, said object just happened to be another tankard.  And so he snatched the projectile nimbly from the air and doffed his wide-brimmed hat with his free paw before murmuring his thanks to the incensed bartender and grinning broadly as he ducked away into the crowd that filled the small bar.  Quickly he made his way back to the gloomy corner booth and retook his seat, much to the displeasure of the bar patron who had claimed it in Ero’s absence and now found himself sprawled upon the bar floor.  So, he’d recouped his loss and found a fresh tankard but that still left him in need of a fresh beer to fill said vessel.  Or at least a beer of some description – “fresh” might be asking a bit too much in this place.  The cat’s eyes lit up and he let out a loud, shrill whistle as the curvaceous figure of Lurleen sailed past with tray full of empty mugs and glasses held high above her head.  With a slight wince at the noise and a resigned sigh, the squirrel femme stopped and turned around to face the source of that noise.  She didn’t need to look to know who it was trying to get her attention for at this time of night there was only one likely customer who had enough muscle control and remaining teeth to produce the sound.