The Goblin Tavern is the Quarter’s favorite watering hole, a well-known hangout for monsters of all types (and a few humans, too).
That evening, I was on my usual bar stool with a tall, cold draft in front of me and my best human friend McGoo on the adjacent stool. Francine, the regular salty-humored bartender, was back on the job after an embarrassing disagreement with the new management. Yes, all was right with the world.
“How was your day, McGoo?” I slurped the foam head off my beer.
“About the same as yesterday, Shamble.”
“Lousy, you mean?”
“That’s about it.”
As the bartender walked by, I said, “Francine, how was your day?”
“Same as McGoo’s.”
“Sorry to hear it,” I answered.
She shrugged. “At least I’m still alive, which makes my day better than yours.”
“You’ve got a point.”
“So, a zombie shambles into a bar,” McGoo said, before I could tell him I wasn’t interested in another joke. “And on his shoulder, he’s got a huge red parrot with long tail feathers and a big black beak.”
“Those are called macaws,” I said.
McGoo gave me an impatient gesture. “He’s got this big red macaw on his shoulder. The bartender takes one look and says, ‘Holy cow, where did you get that thing?’”
Francine butted in, “And the macaw says, ‘Out at the cemetery—there’s hundreds of them!’” She let out a cackle. “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.” She poured gin and crushed ice into a shaker, just a drop of vermouth, and dispensed an extra-dry martini for a dapper-looking Aztec mummy who sat in the corner of the bar, reading a codex.
Francine lit a cigarette and took a puff, leaving bright pink lipstick on the filter. She was a hard-bitten woman in her late fifties who colored her hair an unnatural shade of woodchuck brown. She didn’t take any disrespect from her customers, gave advice from her own personal experiences when appropriate, and cared for the Goblin Tavern patrons better than any previous bartender had—certainly better than Ilgar, the former owner.
After she’d been laid off in favor of a more unnatural employee, her regular customers protested, and Robin filed an antidiscrimination suit. Francine got her job back, after agreeing to wear a funereal black miniskirt and cobwebby fishnet stockings (honestly, not something most customers wanted to see); she accepted the terms only on the condition that she be allowed to smoke on duty. Henpecked and desperate to have the beloved bartender back, the new owner Stu admonished Francine that cigarettes were bad for her health; more importantly, he warned her to stay away from the flammable customers whenever she had a lit cigarette in hand. (She kept her distance from mummies in particular.)
Stu was a portly, good-natured human who always greeted his customers, joked with them, and pretended to be their best friend. He had cobbled together the financing to buy out the Goblin Tavern after the collapse of the Smile Syndicate. He was in over his head, but he soldiered on, sure that business would get better. McGoo and I did our part to support the local tavern by drinking there as often as possible.
Stu emerged from the back office, jaunty and cheerful. “Thought you’d need a little help behind the bar, Francine.” He grinned at all of us, bobbing his head. “The tour bus is due to arrive, and it’ll be full of early convention-goers. Have to make a good impression. Maybe they’ll blog and post about it.”
It took me a moment to remember what Robin had said. “You mean the Worldwide Horror Convention?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Chambeaux. This should be one of our busiest weekends ever—and, boy, could we use the customers. The Goblin Tavern placed a big ad in their program book, shared a page with the Full Moon Brothel. They’re having a convention special, too.”
“Madame Neffi wouldn’t miss a chance to advertise for customers,” I said.
“She wants to be plugged into the convention traffic. We’ve got flyers stuffed into every registration packet as well.”
McGoo wasn’t convinced. “Aren’t the convention-goers mostly human?”
“Sure, but I’m guessing they’re an adventurous lot. I made up a special sampler platter.”
“Hey, Stu,” McGoo said. “What’s cuter than a zombie baby?”
“I don’t know.…”
“A zombie baby with a bunny’s head in its mouth.”
Francine went to console a middle-aged vampire who was drowning his sorrows in a glass of AB negative. I half listened as he poured out his sob story: He’d been a successful cat burglar until he broke into the wrong house and startled the vampire who lived there; the vamp bit him on the neck and turned him. Then, once the burglar became a vampire himself, he could no longer enter a home uninvited, which immediately ended his career as a thief. Now the guy didn’t know what to do with himself.
With a roar of engine noise and a puffing squeal of air brakes, a large motor coach pulled up in front of the Tavern and disgorged twenty humans with cameras and book bags, all of them wearing clip-on badges that identified them as pre-registered attendees of the Worldwide Horror Convention; three wore ribbons that said Professional Guest.
Many of the fans were dressed in elaborate monster costumes, some of which looked better than the real thing—two immaculate Bela Lugosis, a werewolf with a prosthetic muzzle and fake fur glued on her face, and two undead who seemed to think that pale foundation, liberally applied eye shadow, smears of misplaced rouge, a bit of shoe polish, and a fake scar were all they needed to turn themselves into zombies.
Stu greeted the tour group at the door, wearing a big grin. Planning for the bus’s arrival, he had pushed together six tables and pulled around chairs. The rearrangement cramped the room for the dartboard and the shiny new billiards table Stu had just installed (insisting on fiberglass pool cues, so there would be no risk to vampire customers from the long, pointed wooden sticks).
Francine left the depressed cat burglar and went to take orders from the convention group. Because they were tourists and not likely to become repeat customers, Francine gave adequate but not necessarily scintillating service. For their own part, the tourists—knowing they were not going to be repeat customers—would feel no need to tip well, regardless of the service.
Usually, when a tour group left the Tavern, Francine would complain about the crazy concoctions they ordered. She blamed Stu for creating the special twelve-page “Monster Martinis” menu, and she had to keep looking up the recipes.
Hearing a rumble of motorcycle engines outside, I looked through the window to see two large choppers pull up. The burly bikers Scratch and Sniff dismounted and came inside, looming large in their matted werewolf-pelt coats. At their waists dangled meat cleavers with rusty blades and sharp edges that gleamed silver. (Apparently, the two called their trusty cleavers Little Choppers, as opposed to the big choppers they rode.) The werewolves in human form surveyed the customers, obviously not impressed. Over at the empty billiards table, they shucked off their stained fur coats and draped them on stools, which gave them a chance to show off their myriad tattoos.
“Yo, Francine!” Scratch bellowed. “Bring us the usual!”
“Yeah,” said Sniff. “One of everything!”
Francine looked up from the table of tourists. “I’ll be there when I’m finished taking this order.”
“We already gave you our order.” Scratch primped his slicked-back hair.
The intimidated tourists stared at the big men. Francine lifted her chin and turned to the two bikers. “I said, wait your turn. These people are tourists. Show them a little Unnatural Quarter hospitality.”
Holding fiberglass pool cues like cudgels, the pair strode over to the table of conventioneers. Sniff sniffed at the costumes, but the fake full-furred werewolf particularly drew his ire. “Little lady, what do you want to dress like that for? It’s embarrassing.”
“Aww, Scratch, she looks better than most Hairball chicks. Besides, she can wash that off when she wants to. Real Hairballs are stuck with what they look like.”
Francine planted herself in front of the two burly men. “I don’t want any trouble here, and you’re not going to give me any. Don’t you know better than to piss off a bartender? Someday when you least expect it, I’ll put a depilatory cream into your drink.”
“Easy, Francine. We’re not causing any trouble,” Sniff said. “Just welcoming these people to the Quarter. Got no problems with regular humans.”
Stu scuttled back to the bar, doing his best to defuse a situation that Francine had already defused. “What’ll it be, boys? First order’s on the house.”
“Stu, don’t encourage them,” McGoo said. He’d been ready to intervene in case things got ugly, but I never doubted that Francine could handle it.
With exaggerated fake smiles, the two Monthly werewolves sauntered back to the billiards table and racked up a game. They ordered light beers in large mugs. I offered to take the drinks over to them, and Stu looked relieved that he didn’t have to face Scratch and Sniff. Some zombies tend to lurch, but I walked over, careful not to slosh any of the beer.
The billiard balls had been painted like bloodshot eyeballs, another homey touch Stu had instituted at the Goblin Tavern. Holding pool cues and studying the balls across the table, both Monthly werewolves looked up at me.
Sniff sniffed. “Weren’t you at the cockatrice fight?”
“I didn’t think you’d noticed.”
Scratch aimed with great care, sliding the pool stick back and forth on his posed fingers, and missed the ball entirely, whacking the felt surface of the table. His partner let out a sneering laugh. He fumbled the next shot, too, knocking the cue ball off the table. Now I understood where he had gotten the nickname of Scratch.
Scanning their myriad tattoos, I thought it would be a good icebreaker. “When you two got scratched up at the fight, I saw those tattoos come alive.”
“Good healing spells, huh?” Sniff rubbed his beard, sniffed his fingers.
“They’re not just tattoos.” Scratch flexed his biceps to show off the pattern. “They’re voodoo tattoos. I don’t think they work on zombies, though.”
I looked closer. “What does that mean, ‘One-Percenter’?”
“Means we’re one percent human,” said Sniff. “I wouldn’t tell you which one percent, though.” They both laughed.
Always on the case, I fished for information. “Did you hear Rusty the werewolf got scalped after the fight?”
“Probably improved his looks.” Sniff hooted and chuckled again.
I lowered my voice. “You guys, uh, didn’t happen to have anything to do with that?”
“Scalping old Rusty?” Scratch pulled out the meat cleaver at his side. “If I was gonna do something, Little Chopper here would take his head clean off, not just his scalp.”
Looking at the two, I believed them, though I doubted Rusty would.
No longer interested in me, they went back to their game. Sniff knocked an eyeball into the left corner pocket. “We should tell Miranda Jekyll to put a pool table at her werewolf sanctuary.”
Scratch fumbled again and knocked a ball off the table. “When we’re up there during the full moon, you wanna play billiards? That’s our chance to run wild, roam the wilderness, feel the hot blood pounding.”
“No, I mean during the daytime, before the moon rises,” said Sniff.
“Oh, right. Sure, that’s a good idea.”
I left them to their game.