There's a door, only slightly sturdier, beyond those rotten ones that lead to the restrooms, normally secured with three simple sliding bolts and the empty husk of an out-of-order burglar alarm. Someone has had the half-wit to cut a motto into the wooden doorframe with his or her knife: "PAS NOT THEES PORTLS YIE FOLISH MORTILS", a reminder that the door opens out to the filthy backalley and the beat-up dumpster that has been the end to many a quaffing spree for many a happy customer. Yet somebody must have been through here recently, having left a seedy knapsack lying discarded in the corner.
Someon's trying the handle from the outside. Twisting it again and again, then shoving at the door, then kicking, then swearing. A minute later, Olaf enters the cantina from the main entrance, face scrunched up and mandibles masticating furiously, hands jammed deep into his pockets. Dark though as the room may be, darker still is the spot that begins to grow on the leg of his pants, surprisingly close to the knee. Seemingly impervious to the bartender's knowing grin, Olaf rushes straight towards the back exit. During the time it takes him to yank the knapsack's shoulder belt out of the closed door, some other critter also enters the bar, flushed and meek and rodent-like, that self-consciously orders a Rudy Red, hides in a dark corner, and downs the ale like mouthwash.
Olaf returns to the bar, not sparing the rodent a second look, and spouting off greenish Cudgum foam, snarls towards the barguy, "I was jes out for a minute, ya din't have to shut the fucking door on me, dammit..."
_________________ A lone figure sits still by a pool - he's been stamped human bacon by some butchering tool - he is you...
Social Security took care of this lad - we watch in reverence - as Narcissus is turned to a flower
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