Angus Cod

“It has to be done. You can do this.” She whispered to herself before knocking at the office door. Only a grunt replied, so she entered with a tepid step.

Splayed out on a rotten couch, was a dried out huffing merfolk with a corpulent beer belly of a most fetid scaled variety. His fish maw opened, “we out of mead again? Tell them to drink wine then.” He groaned, then became fiery, “spit it out Wench.”

She nervously shuffled forward, and brought her head down before asking, “Master Cod, I came to humbly ask that I be given a raise and a forward on my wages.” She gulped, watching his face stuck in a puzzled leer, then continued, “i beg of you my lord, my mother is ailed and I cannot pay for the medicine. I shall arrive to work everyday, and give you no trouble my lord.”

“Fine, bitch. I’ll pay for your whore mothers medicine. You gonna be my on-tap poon. Understand?” He gurgled out.

She froze, horrified.