As we arrived at The Pinching Tender the sun had begun its downward drift into the afternoon. All in all not my favourite time for business conduction. Late morning, just before lunch, or last thing before bed, when the need to finish things up is at its highest. Mid afternoon, however, they’re often still full from lunch while well into the swing of things decision-making wise. Well there was nothing to do but be about it. Piss must flow.

The moist waterfront cobbles made for uneasy riding, the loose sprays of incoming rain already sheeting down from the skies. Even so porters, dealers, captains and all manner of sea-folk went about their business uncaringly. True, hearty sort that never let a little thing like weather, scurvy, laws, or morals get in the way of solid business. Yes, I decided, this shift down to the underbelly was suiting me very nicely.

“So, Raufa, would you like to come in and make sure we don’t get into any more, whatever it was you were worried about?”

“No.” She’d dropped the reins and, leaning against the wagon’s seat back, folded her arms, eyes leaden-still on the wall in front of her.

“Jolly good. May, will you be keeping Raufa company?”

“Raufa’s fine,” May said, already on the ground. She re-adjusted her loose scarf into a hood against the spattering. “I’m coming. Which one was it?”

“That one,” I said, indicating the sign, water-weathered and swinging. A green background highlighted a screeching bird on fire. “The Pinching Tender. Famed for their spicy chicken, and their irresistible barmaids.” A complete guess, I’d never heard of the place. “Always wanted to come here. Never had the pleasure of engaging in this side of town. Exciting!”

The three of us meandered around to the front to get a better look at the place. Dark, soggy wood, once painted in some kind of uninviting green. The decent few windows had been boarded up, some broken ones merely left unattended. The door remained perpetually left open for the steady trickle of tattooed, well muscled, and frightening clients come to spend their coin, quench their throats, and whatever other wholesome activities the sailor sort engaged in on their off time. Without their patronage I’d easily have agreed the place looked utterly abandoned. With it, it reminded me of an ill-treated donkey past the point of recovery, still forced to work.

“Quite the shithole.” May put hands to hips as she frowned at the pub’s exterior. “I can smell the diseases from here.”

“It’s the local rustic charm,” I said. “To us outsiders it may seem an unsightly establishment, but to these sailors, porters, captains and whores, why I’m sure it’s a balm for the heart.”

“Nah mate it’s a shite hole,” some faceless passer said as, shoulders scrunched against the deteriorating weather, he shuffled his way by us and into the place.

“Well I’m sure the drinks are good at least,” I said.

“I’m sure if anyone else could hear you in this downpour, I’m sure they’d correct you on that too,” May said.

“I was rather hoping for it. I like it when Oskar is proven wrong,” Pritchard said, already moving inside. I followed, shaking off the rain.

“Well, with it being such a rare occurrence I imagine you can’t help but enjoy it,” I said. As my eyes adjusted to the depressing gloom of The Pinching Tender’s interior. “Now,” I said, clapping my hands as I took in the cramped, low-ceilinged, already leaking scene. “Let’s find a corner, get a drink, and get to work.

It was a good thing Raufa had decided to endure outside, as she’d have been half crouched navigating the place. Indeed, the ceiling seemed somehow convex, bowing in at the center from whatever weight it held. As Myria’s torrential gift of water battered outside, already five or six streams of thick-flowing water were flowing from wooden beams and cracks, falling to meet well-worn craters in the floors and tables. Despite this the place was near capacity and, squeezing between patrons, chairs, tables and dripping water, we failed to find a table.

“Well,” I said, struggling to make myself heard between the chatter, individual trickles and violent sprays from within and without. “I suppose we’re not finding a seat.”

“You wanted to sit down in this place? I haven’t seen a single chair without at least three rusty nails sticking out,” May said, one arm about her chest and another fending of a stream from her head. “Sun, this place is miserable. Reminds me of my home.”

“How depressing,” Pritchard said.

“And uninteresting. Yes, I’d hoped to sit and relax a while. Better to ingratiate ourselves with our hosts if we appear at ease. Now? I suppose we have no choice but to get on with it.” I shoved my way through to the bar, squeezed between a couple of soggy, hunched gentlemen minding their drinks and clicked my fingers several times in the air.

A moment later the woman came, the only woman in the world who could possibly have manned that bar. Mildewy, dirty old green dress, thin, dirt blonde hair, pale skin, hefty bags under the eyes. A torn rag of a wench, overused and under nourished, who shuffled towards leaned against the bar and made some mystery grunt, identifiable only by the questioning lilt towards its end.

“Ahh… Fine, thank you, and yourself?”

“No. Wo’ yuh won’?” Brows raised, all tutting. Another one of those sorts.

“Oh, well, since you ask, I’m here on, ah, business.” I struggle for ground between the two muscled behemoths I found myself sandwiched between. Each seemed to be transfixed by their drinks, or were perhaps actually unconscious with their eyes open. I’ve seen it happen.

“Binnis,” she muttered, her tongue flicking out from her thin lips. No teeth. Some men go for that, I hear.

“Yes. We were told to inquire here about some gentleman going by the name ‘Me’. Do you perhaps know such a man?”

Almost as one the entire pub seemed to pause and snort moistly through their noses, bartender included. A smirk, clearly unused to being there, lit up her face a little. She pointed up at the bowing beams.

“Upstairs?” She nodded. “Splendid, wonderfully easy. Thank you very much.”

Another snort. “Heh, yeh, mate. Neh wurrehs.”

As I pushed myself away the entire room glanced once or twice each at me, smirking, openly smiling or at the very least shaking their head. Real friendly, wholesome folk. Helpful and amicable in a way the usual upper class customers have never been. Indeed, these sorts have an unusual sharpness, too. Without such an imbalance of money versus sense, one can be sure each and every man here knows to the exactitude how much coin he has, as well as a keen sense of what things ought to be worth, all regardless of frequent and deep intoxication. These characteristics had been what made them poor customers in the past. Far too difficult to swindle.

Until now that is. The general tension of the room around my inquiry, the soggy locale, the incomprehensible accents, it all seemed to blend together. Condense, that is to say, into a confidence that this would work out great.

“Oskar, if I might have a word?” Pritchard muttered into my ear.

“Now now, Pritchard,” I said, giving the lad a pat on the shoulder “I already know what you’re going to say, and don’t worry. I’ve noticed. We’re right where we need to be. This is our new market.”

“But, this place is abysmal,” he muttered.

“I… Yeah, Oskar, some guy just offered to do something to me, but half the words he used were nouns, not verbs.” May shivered. ” I don’t think it was a friendly thing, but I’m honestly too uncertain to be upset. Are you sure this is where the… pleasant Thinker lady said?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “And such a pleasant woman couldn’t possibly lead us astray.”

Pritchard shrugged. “Couldn’t possibly. Too pleasant..”

May’s head flew back, all will fled her voice. “Great.”

“Now enough with your ever suffering attitudes,” I said, gesturing towards the stairs. “Let’s be off.”

The floorboards of the stairs, navigated in near darkness, had far too much give so that each step felt like a small trip. A solid-ish door stood at the top, which I rapt twice with a stern knuckle. Some unidentifiable grunts responded from inside, more footstep creakings, and finally the turning of a lock. The door swung open, letting through some warm lantern-flame shades and the potent, homely stink of medicinal herbs.

Floor sunken, walls green with vibrant mold, a pool of water in the sinking center – the place seemed more cave than upstairs apartment. Quite atmospheric. Hidden beneath a permanently fitted tarp lounged a man, humid face glistening in lamplight, cigar in hand. He looked rather dapper in his tight fitting suit, despite the shoddy fit. Unblessed by such considerations his men stood rather undisturbed by the shower, here even more prevalent than below, five or so lounging or leaning where they could. Just the sort of intimidating, well-themed hideout I’d look good in, with a better budget of course.

The possibilities shined in my mind in a flash of inspiration! A former Dragon’s den, purged and extracted, decorated with all the ill-educated misunderstandings. A throne of piled gold, of the fools variety of course, barrels aplenty and overflowing with potent, viscous liquids, a faux dragon skull with brazier in its mouth hanging eerily above my head, an array of lackeys at my beck and call, each with a unique and equally unintelligible accent, unsettling disfigurements and horrific anecdotes of crimes committed ready to spout at a moments notice. I’d bring a whiff of class to crime! Organized, a capitalist meritocracy through and through, hints of shady intrigue and aromatic notes of unspoken threats and offers, the sorts of which one had no choice about accepting. It was almost euphoric to think about, so vivid and intimate a vision, I could have stayed there immersed in it for hours if Pritchard hadn’t spat out the most insane sneeze I’d ever heard, scaring the shit out of me.

"Oh, goodness gracious me." Most of the room regarded him as he sniffled greatly. "Think I'm getting a cold."

"Bloody hell. Keep it down, man.” Tried to whisper that, not so easy with rain thudding onto my hat. "Right, well. Good afternoon, good sirs. I am-"

"Whoh! Here now, that's them!" Some youthful thug pushed back off the wall and pointed, quite excitedly. A particular ruffian with a roughed-up nose. "Thems those what knocked me off me horse, gimme this! Phwoah, right good punch that was!"

My tongue ran wild in my mouth, I pondered the odd situation, and this man's odd admiration. Surely I could twist this to my benefit, but how?

"This is that guy?" May asked. "Today is insane."

The cigar puffing man stood, peered out from under his shelter with a nasty little snarl.

"These gits? Why's they here, then? Round two?"

"I'm afraid I didn't bring that particular associate with me, but if you feel like losing I'd be happy to arrange a rendezvous." I stepped into the room a little for effect, dodging the worst of the leaks. "No, good sirs, I'm here on business. Do I have the pleasure of speaking to, ah, Mr. Me?"

A fat tongue caressed his lower lip, withdrawing to display a grin. He tossed his cigar, which rolled along with him as he came to the edge of the pool, which I realized was actually a very nice centerpiece to the whole room.

"Too right you do, ya soggy bastards.” The fellow placed a hand on his chest, utterly unconcerned with getting soaked. “Gentleman smuggler, gang-boss extraordinaire, gambling aficionado, other fancy words. I run this port, you see, me and me boys, so if you're looking to do business you're in the right place, cos if you wanna make a single Pear in this town…" He gestured wide, circling the sink basin that was his stage, then thrust a thumb to his chest. "...you gotta go through Me." Unbelievable.

"Ugh." Pritchard clutched his chest, head shaking. "I knew it was coming, too."

"It's like Oskar if you swapped teeth for hair," May muttered.

"Ahem." I removed my hat, waving them down with it. "A-hah. Hah. Good one. I like it." Always better to start on a good note, even if their jokes are shit. "And I, my good sir am Oskar Sleeman Miles. Owner, founder and chief operator of The Dragon Piss Merchants." You swung your hat low in a half bow to the room. "Pleasure."

"The what now?" The bruise-faced youth blurted.

"OI! Sinny! What'd I say bout blabbing when grown folks is talkin'!" The sudden explosion of unnecessary, awkward anger from Mr.Me silence the room for seconds after. Reminded me of the shouts father used to give me, and with a second glance I saw the resemblance. A family business.

Mr.Me readjusted - what a moronic name, by the way - readjusted his tie as the redness in his face faded somewhat, and made pretend that he hadn't just dragged out his domestic issues in front of company.

"Now, as I was sayin'. What?"

"Surely you've heard the rumours off from Vo? The city is all up in a storm about us and our product."

"No, I ain't," Mr.Me said, then pointed to another associate, the bad brute in a bowler hat who’d first let us in. "Catch?"

Fingers like a babies arm caressed that five o'clock shadow in a pantomime of what these charming sorts imagined thinking would look like, lips pinched, eyes upturned in strained thought. "Muh," he said, and refolded his arms.

Luckily, as an expert in reading people, I understand that this meant 'Yes I have heard of these fine folk, however I think revealing this would be disadvantageous at the moment but I'm not quite sure how to convey all this to you in present company so I'll give up halfway through my poorly conceived response and grunt instead, which ends up being most of the noises I make anyway, Boss.'

Mr.Me clearly got the same message, as he was nodding his head solemnly at the non-information he'd just received.

"Dragon Piss, eh? And what is it I'm supposed to've heard about it?"

"Ah, what a generous, open invitation. My compliments. Well, but a few days ago my crew and I had been delivering our latest batch to our respected clients in Vo, when we heard tell that the entire Council, along with a delegation from the Twenty, the Moketta and the Enkili, were all gathering to crack down on us. Specifically, on our rare, immeasurably potent product, of which we - my crew and I - are the only source in the entire solar system."

"What's it do?" Mr.Me asked, scratching his chin in a faux idle gesture. That he needed to throw out such a thing, showed he had something to cover. Intrigue? I had no doubt.

"Well, in small doses it can serve as…" I paused, took a breath, and spoke, "Aphrodisiac, antihistamine, prophylactic constipation preventative, reactive diarrhea cure, testosterone and/or estrogen supplement, senescence inhibitor, explosive aphrodisiac, regular explosive, pest repellent, nootropic and aphrodisiac. Those are just the ones I remember. Talk to my chemist and he'll have even more words you won't understand. As far as I'm concerned it makes you smarter, faster, sexier, live longer, somewhat more flammable, and occasional euphoria from nosebleeds. Now how's that sound?"

This Mr.Me kept the same vaguely non-present expression on his face as I’d spoken, hand worrying at various spots and pimples on his chin and neck. He narrowed his eyes, nodded a little as he glanced at his men.

“What makes you think I can sell this shit, eh? Who in the fuck’s name sent you to me?”

“Oh, that lovely Alexandria from the Truestone fort. Real pleasant lady.”

“Oh aye, pleasant lass that one,” Mr.Me agreed. Many of his men abandoned their intimidating expressions to nod in agreement. “Really very pleasant. Never going back there, though.”

“Oh, never,” I said. Finally, some common ground. Maybe these chaps weren’t all that bad.

“Alright, so, what? You got any? Not gonna sell this shit without a taste of my own.”

I winked and produced my handy flask, popped it open, and stepped up to the pools edge to hand it over. May stepped forward, hand on my shoulder.

“Are- You- Oskar!” Eyes wide brows tight she gaped at me. “Me, sir, listen,” she said, grabbing a hold of the flask. “This stuff is… Well, this is an old batch, you know? This is best for… uh. Oskar?”

“May, you’re doing it again.” I folded my arms. “I told you, no more of this or you’re out. Do you want to be out?”

“What?” Mr. Me yanked his hand free, examined the flask. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Oskar,” Pritchard whispered in that quivering little voice of his, sniffling at my shoulder. “Maybe just this once you ought to be honest? These aren’t the sort of folk to lie to, surely. And, to be fair, you could literally kill all of us.”

Then as now I seethed at the gall of those two. Especially at May. For a second time she’d openly undercut me in a negotiation, all for the sake of ‘Morals’ or ‘Safety’ or ‘Sanity’ or whatever.. Quite honestly I’d half a mind to take them outside and have Raufa spank both their bottoms. There was no call for such insubordination, and the complete lack of loyalty…

Summoning my remaining patience I removed my hat and glared at May for a moment, batting the water off as I thought. First, salvage the situation, then deal with these usurpers.

“At the moment what you hold in your hands is a perfect grenade,” I said. “It does indeed do everything we promised it would, but fresh off the stove. That, and all our current stock, has been curdling. So no, don’t drink it.”

Teeth bare, brow raised, Mr. Me regarded me a while as he slowly moved the flask away from him. A second thought crossed his mind, however, as he brought it closer, gently uncapped the flask and, glancing around at the room beforehand, gave it a cursory sniff. The religious-grade revelation of repulsion which seemed to rise up his entire frame gave an inkling to its aroma. In bending to empty his lunch in the nearest puddle he spilled a few drops, which reacted with the water in some sizzle-sizzle sort of way, only to calm down and become inert. Then it exploded.

Screams, drawn weapons and grunted threats abound. Still seething and, honestly, having somewhat expected something like that to happen, I maintained my composure rather stoically and only shrieked the once.

“Whoa,” said that ‘Sinny’ fellow. “Beltin’.”

Mr. Me re-capped the flask and set it down on a table with due diligence. He blew out a hot O of air, wiped his hands on his drenched suit and started nodding.

“Alright,” he said. “Alright. I get it. I see what she’s getting’ at.”

“Sorry?” I asked.

“Eh, nothin’. Real nice, though. You say, uh, people drink that stuff?”

“When it’s fresher,” I said. “Smells better, tastes about as good as it smells, does lots of real interesting things to you. I guarantee it’ll be a top-seller.”

“You’ve tried it?” Sinny asked.

“A fewl times,” I said. “First time made me into the man I am today.”

May scoffed. Pritchard sniffled, but harder than needed. Of course those two don’t believe the most truthful thing I’ve said all week.

His tongue took a grand teeth-cleaning tour as he pondered. The water steadily emptied through the newly made drain. I replaced my hat, tucked my thumbs into my belt loops and determined to wait in rain-drop filled silence for his decision. May shuffled side to side as Pritchard failed to contain another sneeze, and the trickles from above dwindled, the battering from outside now a steady tapping. Had I not been swathed in my own lingering indignations, I might have found that long minute unpleasant.

"Mm. Mhm. Alright, let's make something clear. This isn't how I wanna do business, usually. You don't approach Me, Me approaches you." Was that a pun? You're still not sure. "And you'd be chuffed for it, cos I got those connections folk need. You're in with Me,, you're in good. Get Me?"

"Yep."

"This ain't how I like it, you see. Uninvited. Outta nowhere. Plus, you're saying this shit has heat."

"I am?"

"Aye. Folks are after you. Not good for business."

"They're after my product," I said. "They want it, bad. That’s a plus.”

"We'll see." Mr. Me bit his lip. "How much you got on you?"

"About three kegs worth," I said. "Usual cost would be…"

"Ten thousand Oranges," Pritchard said to my gesture.

"It's old, and I'm willing to cut a deal to get it off my hands, especially as a welcoming gift for partnering with the Dragon Piss Merchants."

"GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY!" This from the broken-nosed youth, Sinny, slapping his knee. "Hah! I get it!"

"He gets it," I said, pointing. "Told you, Pritchard."

"Shut up, kid." Mr. Me circled the newly installed drain, and I did the same, meeting not quite in the middle. "Five, for the old batch. I can make use of it. If the stuff is as good as you say, I'll pay full for a new load, but get it to me in the week. Aye?"

He thrust out a hand.

"A new… batch. Have there been rumors of Dragons about?"

"Fuck if I know. Deal or not?"

A week wasn't much time, especially without a lead. In any sensible mood I’d have begged for more time, but the adventurous spirit and my general foul mood spurred me on.

"Deal." We shook hands. "Seriously though, Golden Opportunity? No?"

“No,” Mr. Me said. “I don’t joke around when it comes to bu’ness.”

"Sure. Great. Well, let’s go load off these barrels then, aye? Piss doesn’t decant itself! We’ll need replacement barrels, by the way.”

“Yeah, yeah, now get the fuck out,” he said, waving us off. “And - Hey! I don’t like you, let’s be clear about that. Only my lad here and our friend up at the fort’s what’s getting you this gig. You don’t deliver, I’ll skin your googlies and leave ‘em dangling.” His fingers wriggled down into the air. “Raw and stingin’ like. Get me?”

“Fucking hell, why?” May muttered beneath her breath. Pritchard gagged.

“Well, good thing I like you enough for the both of us!” An absolute lie, but one does what one must.. “Toodloo!”

“Get fucked.”

Safely downstairs, I spun in the cramped, damp doorway to debrief my tag-alongs.

“Alright, so, two things. First, excited? A new client, a new line of merchandising! Yay! Second, you’re both fired if you ever undermine me again, either of you.”

“I don’t even know why I had to come!” Pritchard said, shoulders huddled to fit beside May. “I didn’t do anything!”

“Well I’m glad you can finally admit it,” I said. “May, what do you have to say for yourself?”

May flipped through a series of sour, pouty expressions before managing to land on something non-hostile. “Yeah, I get it. Look, I think you’re an awful businessman. Or, you’re doing awful business. If we’d been doing this stuff to actual citizens, I’d tell you to go fuck yourself, but that guy was a greasy toothless asshole, and I don’t doubt his entire operation would be better off if they blew themselves up hauling dragon… piss.” She met my eye. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I promise I’ll never undermine you again. Fucking over these guys is my new kink.”

“Your new what?” Pritchard asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’m glad to hear it, because we’re in the home stretch. We seal this deal and we - Fuck! Damn it, we forgot to ask about contracts.”

“We could just go back…” May said.

“No, no… It’d just be awkward. Damn it all. We’ll just have to do a distraction without contracts.”

“Is that… possible?” she asked.

“Yeah… We did it before, the first time.”

“First time?” Pritchard said. “That sounds ominous.”

“Yeah, and it’s going to stay that way. Look, just start unloading the barrels. We need to get back and start searching for a Dragon. I’ll… figure out how we’re going to do this.”

Delivery complete and safely returned, I let Stefan know the good and bad news. He of course overreacted - not about the contracts, but that the replacement barrels we got had been used to hold alcohol, some chemistry nonsense. Dramatic ponce.

Not much happened the rest of that night, just unwinding and trying to figure out how to survive a Dragon uncontracted a second time. What a pisser.