Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn
From: ftsomers@cs.tcd.ie (fergal somers)
Subject: JACK [IN] The Inn [To] Everyone
Message-ID: <1992May27.150004.5061@cs.tcd.ie>
References: <1992May27.115423.29449@cs.tcd.ie>
Date: Wed, 27 May 1992 15:00:04 GMT

(How do you start? Well here's a try)
(In the spirit of anti-munchie posts..)

JACK 

The rain beat down harder on the windows of Generica, tapity-tapping to the 
chorus of slamming shutters and creaking signs. Wind-tumbled leaves and 
rubbish danced and swirled down the narrow streets of Generica, rustling at 
doors and sliding along walls, yet moving ever-onward to the syncopated 
rhythms of the tap-tap-tapping of the rain.

Jack finished counting, whispered a silent prayer and poked his head around the 
corner of the alley. Brushing the rain-matted hair back from his eyes, he 
surveyed the mass of shadows and recesses which populated the street. Close. 
He brushed his cloak down, an old habit which had long lost any meaning, 
managing only to smear mud onto the palms of his hand. One more cursory glance 
down the street. Clear. Jack shambled his way onwards through the rain, his 
leather boots clacking on the cobbles. The rain began to ease-off and the 
shamble slowly changed to the customary swagger. Lucky-Lucky-Jack. Jack turned
the last corner on his way to his digs, there were lights inside. A cold 
ruinous thought escaped across his brain. They know who you are Jack. 
What now Jack, where to now? The long-expected cry was released, a sentry 
had been posted. Jack turned and ran, tearing down alleys, over fences and 
finally huddling amongst the wet leaves in recess of a doorway. Breathing 
hard now, trying to muffle the gasps, lest they betray him. The door opened. 
Jack fell in.

The patrons of the Dragon's Inn are used to all sorts of strange and often 
fatal wonders. Anonymity is not only guaranteed, but vehemently protected. 
It earns the sort of clientelle, to whom death is a daily occurence and 
privacy is sacrosanct. Thus, to frequent the Dragon's Inn requires one 
develop a hearty disinterest in the business of the menagerie of customers. 
Even so, the wet bedraggled bundle that sprawled inwards on the smoky 
atmosphere and assembled patrons was cause for attention. Raising its head 
the bundle's first glimpse of the Inn was of blade of a axe, carelessly 
dug into the wood of the floor. The bundle scuttled backwards to the wall 
and faced the customers of the Inn.

"Anyone got a drink?"

Fergal Somers