Though darkness still obscured him, and his head tilted down towards his glass, Paul and Fitz still felt sure The Bastard’s gaze was cast upon them as they neared, but he didn’t look up to acknowledge them properly until Paul placed his peace offering on the table and cleared his throat. The Bastard’s head turned slowly, and by candlelight they saw him now. His hair, grey and shaggy, fell beside a worn and wrinkled face; eyes, small and brown, peered between strands that dangled before them. There was a long, thin cut beneath his right eye, and he had what Paul would refer to as a “drinker’s nose,” large and red, the touches of rosacea. A rough grey goatee beard framed his thin pale lips, and stray hairs stretched across his cheeks and down his neck. He looked in good need of a wash, as did the long grey coat that he wore buttoned up to his chest. The Bastard nodded towards the drink that Paul had set beside him.
“The fuck is this?” As he spoke, he revealed more teeth than the barman, but the colourless stumps still fell considerably short of a full set. Fitz recoiled at the scent of his stale breath.
“Brandy,” Paul replied, sliding it closer to The Bastard’s hand. “Courtesy of the troublemakers.” The Bastard watched as the glass skated across the wooden table top towards him, stopping just short of his right hand, and then he eyeballed Paul curiously.
“What did Riley tell you?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.
“Excuse me?”
“You don’t sidle up to a stranger in a bar and present him with his choice o’ poison without the knowledge o’ what he’s drinkin’. And if the next words outta your mouth don’t profess your psychic abilities, they best reveal what Riley told you.”
“Just that you could let us know a thing or two about this place.”
“Is that so?” The Bastard replied. He leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking as his slender frame shifted. “And there was me thinkin’ you wanted my cock up your ass.” He laughed to himself, but when Paul joined in, he stopped abruptly. “Tell me; are you a scholar or a fool?”
“Excuse me?”
“Lesser men have learned not to trust the word o’ Riley Creeper. Let me see; did he tell you that I’m The Bastard Drunk, and that I’ll spill the deepest darkest secrets o’ Kramusville if you ply me with alcohol?”
“That’s about right.”
“And you cocksuckers came right on over with a glass o’ brandy and your hearts full o’ hope, dincha? Well, bless your fuckin’ cotton ones. I’m just glad Riley didn’t tell you I’d chew the crap from your ass hair. The sight o’ your faces is bad enough–”
“Is your name The Bastard Drunk or not?” Fitz spat suddenly. The Bastard slowly turned to face him, his face etched with irritation.
“Is my name The Bastard Drunk? Were my parents married when I was born? No. Do I drink myself into a stupor on a regular basis? Hell yeah I do. Is my name The Bastard Drunk? Course it fuckin’ ain’t! You ever met a man by the name o’ The before? Didn’t think so; what a stupid thing to ask! But have the circumstances surroundin’ my birth, and my daily consumption o’ alcohol, led some to label me The Bastard Drunk over the years? I believe so, yeah. But you two fucks don’t know me well enough to address me by that moniker. And I don’t know you well enough to be on a first name basis.”
“I’m Paul. This is Fitz.” The Bastard leapt to his feet and grabbed Paul by the scruff of the neck. His fragile appearance belied a strength the travellers did not think possible; Paul was frozen with fear, and Fitz was simply stunned by The Bastard’s swift movement.
“You think tellin’ me your God damn names is gonna lessen the severity o’ the mess you find yourselves in?” Fitz snapped into life, and with great difficulty he separated the pair of them. The Bastard staggered back a step, before squaring up to Fitz. There was very little difference in height between them, and for a moment they just stood toe to toe, glaring into each other’s eyes, trying to intimidate, but both too stubborn to back down that neither man moved.
“Come on, Fitz,” Paul said. He had straightened his coat and was rubbing his throat, red marks already visible from The Bastard’s firm grasp. “Let’s find our own table. You were right; this guy obviously doesn’t want any attention.”
“Take heed o’ what your friend is sayin’,” The Bastard growled. “Problem child like yourself in a strange town like this; you need attention like a cripple needs a flight o’ stairs.” He stepped back and grabbed the glass of brandy from the table, brought it up to his lips and threw the liquid past his gums in one. Fitz continued to stare at him, though his expression was now one of disbelief.
“You drank the drink.” The Bastard slammed the glass down and wiped his beard with the back of his hand.
“Well observed,” he replied. “What else was I gonna do with it? Dip my junk in to see if it’ll float?”
“Leave it, Fitz–” Paul started.
“Bullshit! The old man just drank the brandy you bought him. He owes us a fucking story now whether he likes it or not.” The Bastard narrowed his eyes once more.
“Come again?”
“Buy The Bastard a brandy, an’ he might jus’ tell you a tale ’bout this town,” Fitz said, repeating Riley’s words in an exaggerated accent. The Bastard snorted.
“I believe the operative word in that sentence o’ yours is might. There ain’t nothin’ legally bindin’ about it.”
“Come now, Hanson,” came Riley’s voice from the bar. All eyes turned to see that he was still wiping glasses with his tattered rag. “These boys did go to all the trouble o’ buyin’ you a drink; what say you give ’em a lil story or two for their efforts?” Before The Bastard could respond, Riley suddenly stopped cleaning, and he seemed to darken somewhat. “Unless you want me to tell ’em a tale o’ my own,” he added, with unnerving sincerity in his voice. The Bastard’s eyes widened momentarily, and then he angrily dropped into his seat.
“Fine,” he spat. “One brandy gets you one tale; I ain’t a fuckin’ charity case.” Fitz and Paul shared a brief smile, before pulling up chairs and sitting opposite their new acquaintance.
“So what have you got in store for us, Hanson?” Paul asked, and The Bastard looked like he was fit to tear the man’s head clean from his shoulders.
“If you dare to call me by the name my mother bestow upon me one more time, I swear to God, I will hurt you. In ways you’ve never imagined possible. Do I make myself clear?” Paul nodded, and sipped on his ale. “I’ve got tales about this place that could evoke any emotion from within you two cocksuckers. I could make you laugh, but I don’t feel like bein’ funny. I could make you feel all warm inside, or I could chill you to the bone. I could even make you cry if I wanted to, and I’m mighty tempted, ’cause I bet your stupid little fuck faces would look even dumber with tears for momma rollin’ down your cheeks.”
“Are you going to tell us a tale, or just insult us?” Fitz interrupted.
“Both; if I have it my way. And I will have it my way. I’m the one who will be tellin’ the tale after all.”
“So what’s the tale about?” Paul asked. The Bastard leaned back in his chair, and sported a wry grin for a split second.
“Why don’t you decide that for yourselves?”
“For fuck’s sake, just tell us about our train,” Fitz said hastily. The Bastard looked at him like he was nothing more than dog mess he’d trodden in.
“Your train? You want a story about a train?”
“I know, I’m sorry,” Fitz replied. “Stupid thing to ask, right?”
“You’re damn right it’s a stupid thing to ask!” The Bastard slammed his fist down on the table; droplets of alcohol sloshed up the inside of the travellers’ glasses and splashed out on to the wood.
“Maybe you could suggest a subject–” Paul started, but The Bastard jerked his head fiercely so that he was now staring at him instead of Fitz.
“You’ll get your train story,” he growled quietly, and then he scraped his chair closer to the table and motioned for the travellers to do the same.
“I thought it was a stupid idea?” Fitz asked testily. “Why the sudden change of heart?” The Bastard ran fingers through his greasy hair, and glowered at Fitz once more.
“Stupid, yes. But it’s not my change o’ heart that should concern you; it’s your own! ’Cause once you hear the tale o’ pretty Polly Whitmore, you might just think twice about catchin’ your train come mornin’ light.”