"Clear off, the lot of you! Make way for the distinguished boss!"
The guards' shouts were as rough as their methods. Their weapons—notched blades, heavy cudgels—weren't for show. They swung them with a casual menace that sent the crowd scrambling. A solid hit from one of those would leave a man crippled, if not dead.
The reason for their zeal was clear: Michael had become an instant spectacle upon entering Cinder Town. He stood out like a sore thumb, a pale, clean anomaly in the grimy, sun-baked reality of the place. The scene that greeted him was a stark contrast to the shadowy, alcohol-blurred memory of the previous night.
Dozens of children of various species—some with tufted ears, others with stubby tails or unusual skin textures—were playing in the dust of what passed for a main street, a cracked and heat-warped ribbon of ancient asphalt. They were naked, their small bodies caked in the ochre dirt, making them look like animated clay figures. The moment they spotted Michael, the game was forgotten. They swarmed him like tiny, chattering locusts, holding up grubby hands, their voices a shrill chorus.
"Boss! Spare a little something!"
Their words weren't the specific dialect of his world, but the meaning was universal. Michael's heart gave a small, treacherous tug. They were a pitiful lot—skinny to the point of showing ribs, covered in sores and scabs, their eyes too large for their pinched faces. His years as a salesman, however, had built a callus over his instinctive sympathy. Don't you dare, he warned himself. Giving to one would be an invitation to be mobbed by all, stripped clean before he made it ten paces further.
Fortunately, his newly acquired entourage of guards proved effective. With rough shoves and threatening brandishes of their weapons, they carved a path through the sea of small, clutching hands. The children fell back, their pleas turning to sullen mutters.
As Michael walked, flanked by his temporary escorts, he felt the weight of a hundred hidden gazes. From the dark doorways and glassless windows of the ramshackle huts lining the street, eyes followed him. Women in tattered rags, men missing limbs or eyes, their bodies bearing the marks of hard lives and harder choices. They shared a common look: large-boned frames draped in skin stretched tight over bone, complexions ravaged by sun, grime, and disease. Their stares held not just curiosity, but a feral, wounded pride, the watchfulness of scavengers sizing up potential carrion. A shiver that had nothing to do with the heat traced Michael's spine. He forced his chin up, his shoulders back, projecting a confidence he was far from feeling.
Delivered to the familiar, fire-marked door of the Honey and Maiden, the guards accepted another few squares of toilet paper with effusive bows and scrapes before trotting back to their post. The lone minotaur bouncer on day duty gave a slow, recognizing nod. Michael returned it with what he hoped was casual authority and stepped inside.
Right, he thought. Hiring bodyguards can wait. First things first.
The interior in the harsh light of day was a revelation, and not a pleasant one. Gone was the mysterious, shadowy den of iniquity. In the unforgiving sunlight streaming through dirty windows, the tavern looked exactly what it was: a dump. The tables and chairs were scarred and rickety. The floorboards were uneven, splintered, and stained with things Michael didn't want to identify. The "decor" was non-existent, just bare, grimy walls. The only thing that hadn't changed was the faint, lingering smell of smoke, sour ale, and unwashed bodies, now more pronounced.
His heart sank, but he quickly rallied. He wasn't here for the ambiance. Priority one: find a way back home and stay alive. Priority two: locate something valuable. And if, if, conditions allowed, priority three: engage in some hands-on cultural and anatomical research regarding the promised "large, comfortable bed."
Business was slow, it being still early evening. Only two tables were occupied by patrons nursing dark, dubious-looking drinks. The bartender, Old Gimpy, and several of the female servers were slumped over tables, catching what sleep they could. A quick scan confirmed his worst fear: Jaunysmoke, the rabbit-girl, was nowhere to be seen. A sharp pang of disappointment lanced through him, sharper than he'd expected.
The long, hot walk had also reawakened the gnawing hunger in his gut. Remembering that he'd survived eating the tavern's fare the night before (however inebriated he'd been), he decided to risk it. Safety first, though. He needed to establish control, to remind them who (they thought) he was.
He slapped a hand on the bar, the sound echoing in the quiet room. "Old Gimpy! Stop playing dead! Your favorite customer has returned! Bring out your best food and drink, and be quick about it—I'm starving!" His voice boomed with forced bravado. "And where's my Jaunysmoke? My sweetheart! Your Michael has come back to play! And while you're at it, which one of you bastards clobbered me last night? Do you have any idea who you're dealing with?"
He puffed out his chest, trying to look intimidating. Girls are great, but staying conscious is better.
Old Gimpy jolted awake, his rheumy eyes blinking rapidly. At Michael's words, a strange, conflicted expression flitted across his wrinkled face—surprise, calculation, and a touch of what Michael hoped was caution.
"Most esteemed sir," Gimpy began, his voice a dry rustle. "The Honey and Maiden is, of course, honored by your return. The finest provisions are yours." He gestured to a sleepy server, who scurried off. Then his tone turned apologetic. "As for the girl, Jaunysmoke… I must offer my deepest apologies. Our… investigations revealed she was a thief, an infiltrator who had slipped into our town. It seems her despicable plan was to waylay a generous patron such as yourself. She struck you down and attempted to spirit you away from Cinder Town. We are most relieved you are unharmed. Sadly, she is no longer… available for your company."
Gimpy spoke quickly, his accent thick. Michael caught perhaps seventy percent of it, but it was enough. Pieces clicked into place. The mystery of his return home was solved. She'd knocked him out, dragged him to that cave, and… something had happened. A portal? He'd stumbled back. The half-roll of toilet paper he'd been wrapped in? Likely her prize. It was a classic mugging, just with a fantastical twist. The takeaway was cautiously positive: there seemed to be somerudimentary order here. Street robberies might happen, but perhaps not outright murder in the town itself. The wilderness was another matter.
Despite understanding the logic, a wave of genuine disappointment washed over Michael's face. What a waste of a perfectly good… specimen.
Old Gimpy, watching him like a hawk, saw the crestfallen look. He was quick to offer consolation. "Worry not, noble sir! Our establishment boasts other treasures!" His grimy finger pointed across the room. "See the tall one? That's Lynda the Wolfkin. Look at those legs! Pure power. And beside her, Faye the Foxkin. Obedient, supple, and let me tell you, she moves like a hummingbird's wings!"
The mentioned servers, now fully awake and preening under the attention, struck exaggerated poses. One, Lynda, had a powerful, athletic build, pointed ears peeking through wild hair, and a feral grace. The other, Faye, had a sly, delicate face framed by a mass of auburn hair and a lush, russet tail that twitched enticingly. They were, objectively, stunning. The added exoticism of their animalistic features held a potent, forbidden allure for Michael's thoroughly modern sensibilities.
Well, he reasoned, trying to shake off his disappointment. Jaunysmoke's gone. A man has to be adaptable. Who am I to be picky?He gave a small, regal nod of approval.
The two women descended upon him in a flutter of practiced seduction. They draped themselves over him, cooing and giggling. And then, within sixty seconds, the poor, hopeful young man's stomach rebelled for the second time that day.
The problem was immediate and overwhelming: the smell.
Sober and clear-headed, his senses were painfully acute. As they pressed close, two distinct but equally overpowering odors assaulted him. It was the smell from the tiger-man guard, multiplied. It was the deep, ingrained stench of bodies that hadn't known soap or hot water in months, perhaps years. It was sweat turned rancid, old grease, and the sickly-sweet tang of infection. Up close, the "alabaster" skin of Lynda's thigh was a landscape of grime. He imagined a finger drawn across it would leave a trench. Worse were the angry, pustulent boils dotting her skin, some weeping a yellowish pus.
The cognitive dissonance was paralyzing. Visually, they were captivating. The feel of their bodies against his was… intriguing. But the smell, the visceral, undeniable evidence of profound filth, created a barrier his mind could not cross. To push them away felt like a monumental waste of an opportunity. To endure them felt impossible.
Blast it all…he thought miserably, caught in the agony of choice.
If the olfactory assault was a challenge, what came next was the knockout blow. Old Gimpy, beaming proudly, placed a laden plate before him—the "finest" the house had to offer.
In the stark daylight, the feast was revealed in all its horrific glory. The "delicious morsels" he'd consumed the night before were now clearly identifiable. There, blackened and hairy, was a fist-sized spider, its legs curled in a death grip, merely singed over a fire. Next to it, arranged like grim jewels, were several small, desiccated lizards, their bodies twisted into leathery, jerky-like spirals, the color of old blood and dust.
The memory of last night—of Jaunysmoke popping these very things into his mouth with a giggle—flooded back with terrifying clarity. His brain connected the dots between the visual horror and the remembered taste.
With a cry that was half-gag, half-despair, Michael shoved Lynda and Faye away. He barely made it to the edge of the bar before his stomach, already empty, convulsed violently, bringing up nothing but bitter bile and the crushing realization of his predicament.
The grand adventure, it seemed, was primarily an exercise in not throwing up.