Go to the café

Honestly, I couldn’t have thought of a better suggestion myself. I beamed at Laura, and decided I had to make a proper friend of her.

“You lead the way.” I said.

Once out of school, she took me a little further than just down the road. Soon, I didn’t really know where we were except that it was all old town everywhere I looked, and not a motorised vehicle in sight. I didn’t mind very much, as it meant I could observe the curious phenomenon of my companion’s breasts swaying endlessly from side to side.

Laura led me round a bend into yet more unfamiliar territory and remarked “This street is real. You can tell because they haven’t made it wider to let a little more light in.”

“Real?” I asked.

“Authentic.” she said, “Most of the old town isn’t actually the old town, you know. There’s a lot of reconstructions by the aristocracy. Usually after a war when the centre gets bombed to shit.”

I ceased ogling her for a bit to look more carefully around me. The street wasn’t narrow, at ground level, but each building protruded outwards about a step or two each storey, so that much of the sun’s light was blocked out, in addition to that already screened by the snow clouds above. The road was not all huge clean flagstones; it was paved in small hexagonal lumps of volcanic rock; ash grey and not quite the same sizes. I didn’t know what was more unsettling, the darkness at roughly mid-day, the harsh angular lines of the houses with their visible wooden beams, or the sensation of the ground under my boots. The snow was patchy, and much of it had melted into slosh, forcing my attention on the mere act of walking forward. There was no consolation here in the spectacle of Laura’s breasts, or those of anybody else, as I could hardly see them.

“We’re here,” she said, gently tugging my arm her way. I slipped in melting ice ooze, but caught myself in time to see where she meant. There was a single wooden door, a massive, sturdy looking affair, with a sign above it reading “The Broken Drum”. On either side of the door were two electric lamps, and in the wall to the right was a semi-transparent window. Through the window I could see what I thought to be similar lights on the inside wall. They went down.

“This honestly doesn’t feel very welcoming.” I said. “Where are you taking me, the bowels of Hell?”

“Oh,” she whined, pulling a mock pleading face, “You know how it is. The best places are always hidden away where no one will look for them. Trust me.”

I reminded myself of the potential rewards of humouring her, and followed to the door. It was up close that I saw the deep set carving on the wood, dimly lit by the torches. The scowling face of a mountain troll stared at us as if daring us to offend it, give it reason to become real and tear us limb from limb. Laura spoke to it.

“I have a new one.” she said. The troll’s face betrayed nothing, but the door opened of its own accord, swinging inwards with a creaking groan. Apparently I was allowed entry.

The spiralling stairs circled down twice before leaving us inside a large semi-circular room. On the straight side was the bar, and at the other end of it from us, another stairway leading upwards. The rest was all tables and chairs of varying sizes and wear, pillars, a fireplace, and rather loud guests. On the way down and hearing the commotion I had hoped to see a little taster of what was to come for me, some nice food, a little playing, a little fucking; some pretty girls serving the drinks, preferably with generous assets. Yet looking around I could only see the most rough and gruff types imaginable, people I would never have dreamt existed in the City. There were great monstrous men with paunches, red and brown beards, and long messy pigtails. There were enormous troll-looking dudes, completely bald, red-faced and muscles rippling under a thin blanket of coarse skin and fat. All were laughing, growling, biting huge chunks of meat I couldn’t begin to identify, and chugging earth brown beer in overflowing wooden cups. The only woman apart from the one standing beside me was this huge towering thing stood behind the bar, barrel shaped, breasts sagging a good ten inches, with massive purple dreadlocks and a perpetually murderous stare.

The lighting was good enough here that I could see Laura properly, so I stared at her to find some way to reconcile her with this place. I couldn’t.

“Don’t worry.” she said, somehow not needing to shout for me to hear her, “This isn’t for us. Follow me.”

She led me to the other staircase, up one storey and into a completely different and far quieter area. The ceiling was higher; the room long, slightly narrow, and curved so that you couldn’t see from one end to the other. The tables and chairs, cushioned chairs this time, were set into recesses in the wall inside the curve, and framed on either side by a wooden pillar and some huge fungal plant. A human-looking waitress greeted us, and guided us to a place to sit. She must have known and been used to meeting Laura’s preferences, because she didn’t give us a plain spot for two, of which there were many free, but to a table for four, with long, wide couches rather than chairs.

“Well,” said Laura as I sat down and became aware of soft music in the background, “what do you think now?”