Chasey watched the door slam shut behind him as he stormed out of the tavern into the rain. She shook her head sadly. She hated turning away good money, and hated even more keeping an old man from the one thing that provided him with consolation. She knew he had lost much in his life. He’d been frequenting this tavern since she was a toddler, watching her parents serve their guests. She had learned that every night it was the same.
He was a whimsical old man but the drink changed him. While he came in frail and polite, he left in strength and raving mad. The town constable had asked Ritov, the owner of the bar, to stop providing him with the drink. It had been a week now, and still he walked through the door, crossed the room, sat at the bar, and slepped two silver coins down. “Impaler,” his creaky voice would order. Chasey had to shake her head. “I’m sorry, Sturrin, but you know that we’ve been asked not to serve you the Impaler anymore. Won’t you order something else tonight?”
The old man’s eyes gleamed, but less in anger than in fear. He snatched the coins up and walked out of the tavern, just to appear the next night, a little worse for the wear.
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