Bouncer of Blue Ball

by Wade T. Wilson

Othum Vurbishum, cook and bouncer at the Best Burp Tavern in Blueball, Kingdom of Oce, meets an old friend who entices him with the promise of a personal meeting with a powerful, beautiful queen. Othum accepts the offer, given because of his unsurpassed size and strength, of employment as an agent for the Inter-kingdom Traders Guild.When he meets the Queen to find himself imprisoned by a demented tyrant with a fetish for huge men, it is too late to go home to Oce. The Queen ruls Rengor, a militaristic land dominated by men who enslave charming, exotic women from Yherrma, some with magical glands on their neck capable of mysterious powers. Escaping with the help of Yherrman slaves, they flee to join forces with a tribe of fellow fugitives. The powerful leader of the slave rebellion charms and beguiles Othum into becoming a powerful warrior devoted to their liberation, and the uprising begins ... and Othum discovers he is a god ... sort of.

ISBN 1-59431-489-6 Mainstream

Cover Art by Wade Wilson

Also available in HTML or RTF formats.

The Bouncer of Blue Ball by Wade Wilson

Chapter 1

The Best Burp in Blueball

“Odd outlanders,” said Myele , stepping into my kitchen, “and a queer lot they are. Four boys and an old woman.”

“Old woman?” I asked. “And an outlander? In the Burp? That is a bit queer.”

“And then there’s a fancy dandy of some sort, with feathers about his cap, just come in, but he’s not eating. Looks like a trickster or a scallywag of some sort. Best beware of that one.”

“You said four boys and an old woman? Armed?”

“The boys checked their swords politely,” said Myele

. “Let’s hope they’re more civil than the louts in here last night.”

“I’d rather not think about it,” I said, rubbing my swollen cheek bone. I’d been forced to oust a couple ruffians that actually got in a lick or two on me. Usually I didn’t have that much trouble.

Myele had offered me the dual post of bouncer and cook two moon-seasons back. I’d been working for my father at the time, but after chopping off half my little finger and almost burning off my beard, he decided that blacksmithery might not be my calling. Myele ’d been having problems with rowdy customers and needed someone to keep order. I was big and strong enough to take care of that, and she didn’t really care if her food was any good. Her customers were usually too drunk on our ale or dispatched on Jilyriade purple that they really didn’t care what the food tasted like anyway.

“They want their haunch raw,” she said. “Just burnt on the outside over the fire. And bring the woman a bowl of greens. And since they likes it raw, we’ll give it to them raw. Less work for us. They want a whole haunch of the critter, scuttle-head, not a shank or a slice.” With that, she folded her arms and pointed her thumbs upward. This gesture was a sort of physical slang popular among Blueball wenches at the time. It meant something inane like, “try being more clever than that.”

Haunch was the daily special, braised and roasted porsapine, a fat creature that gets its flavor from the small slimy things it eats in the Avaiqqul Swamps . A hunter had brought in a lot of the critters yesterday, leaving me to figure a way to cook the things so they tasted better than they smelled. I did that, steaming it over herbs, vegetables and wine. That made it tender. Then I’d grill them over the big chunks of wood in our cooking pit.

Wiping chunks of grease from a cleaver, I turned to her.

“Fine,” I said, turning toward the meat hooks. Nine haunches were hanging there, dripping with oil and a paste of fragrant roots and herbs. “Front or rear?”

“No matter,” she said. “Long as its raw and bloody. Just throw them right in the fire and scorch ‘em for a flash.”

I chuckled and pulled the largest rear haunch from the hook. “What manner of outlanders we got here?”

“Traders,” she said. “That’s what the old woman said. Claims she’s got something that’ll increase my profits four-fold overnight.”

“I want to see this.”

“We’ll have our chance after they’ve ate their fill.”

A roar of laughter rose from the sitting area, followed by the clatter of metal, then the shatter of breaking pottery. Then came what sounded like jovial threats.

“Sounds like they’ll be needing more mugs,” I said as I threw the haunch into the flames.

“Best they have full money-pouches,” she snorted. “I’ll be demanding a fair gratuity for keeping this lot in order.” Chin up, shoulders back, she stormed back into the sitting room. She was greeted by demands for more ale, more mugs, and lewd, though flattering, comments about her physical attributes.

I laid the spits over the freshly-stoked fire. The occasional roar and clatter from the sitting room seemed to quiet, and I went about my tasks. My stacks of twen-wrought pots and pans lay near the well, where the task I loathed most—cleaning the dishes—awaited. For now, though, I busied myself with tending the large pots of steaming root-vegetables.

My cooking area, unlike many other taverns, was in a separate room from the guest’s sitting area. It had an imported oven, cast in the fires of Trenn by the dwarf-miners. It was the only one of its kind in Blueball . It held up to eight pots and could be fired by wood, dried dung or peat. Across the oven was my work-table, a simple, sturdy four-legged piece from a local craftsman. Fresh, good quality well-water was available in the room, flowing in via pipes connected to the well outside and draining back through the rivulet behind the tavern. The roasting hearth lay at the opposite end of the room from the water source. Many a creature, both domestic and wild, found its fate roasting on its spits.

Once the haunches were good and black, I piled them on a huge platter and took them out to the customers. Myele brought the plates and the bowl of greens for the old woman . When they saw me, all four of the young men turned their attention toward me. That was not unusual, as people often gaze at me because of my ample height and girth. They took reassurance when they noticed my grease- and blood-stained apron and my cooking cap. They returned my look with a smile and a nod, then went back to hacking up their haunches of near-raw meat.

After serving the customers, I took a seat at the bar for a smoke of dern-flake and a sup of our good ale. I always sat near the window where I could see the comings and goings on the street.

The Best Burp in Blueball wasn’t much of a place, but the food and service was good. The rough-hewn planks of driftwood that were hacked and placed awkwardly into place gave the walls, tables and bars a look of being slapped together—a transient quality not inappropriate for an isolated tourist town like Blueball . The tabletops, slabs of rough rock, gave the tavern a backroads quality, since the tops weren’t smooth, making mugs topple and plates rattle while trying to use the uneven surface of the slabs of rock. The bar was made of one huge slab of the same material, and every stool in the tavern was a solid rock. I was never able to persuade Myele to purchase smooth slabs of polished marble to give the Burp a more civilized appearance.

The rafters were the most identifiable feature of the Burp. I had bounced many a rowdy customer off those rafters. They were sort of my trademark. They seemed designed to support some massive structure of rock beyond a mere roof, and the roof they did support was mere thatch. Unlike most taverns, which are laden with all sorts of etchings, tapestries, paintings and artifacts, the Burp was plain. It was probably best, actually, since anything that could be broken probably would be. The Burp would have more appropriately been named the Brawl, as its sparse furnishings provided a setting for rough-housing and drunken scuffles. It made my task as bouncer easier than my colleagues at taverns with expensive decorations. I could be more patient before I exercised physical force to oust a troublesome customer. This was not uncommon, since that was what the Burp was all about: to provide a place for rowdies to celebrate.

Myele , who had finished serving the outlanders, brought my ale.

“A strange lot, these outlanders,” she said, slightly hushed. She leaned over toward my ear as she placed my ale on the bar. “One minute they’re near to a brawl, next they’re talking quiet and business-like—like now.”

“Eating will quiet many a man,” I said. “But these are barely even men. Any word on the nature of their business?”

“I promised the old woman—calls herself Nuurdia

—I’d sit and have a chat with her after they’ve eaten their fill.”

One of the two other men at the bar tapped his mug, and Myele was there promptly to give him a refill. Despite her rough edges, Myele was good and efficient at her business. She was a cheerful young woman, a tad more plump than most, with a bright face and a disarmingly direct stare, until you got used to it. She was taken to brightly colored, intricately embroidered dresses.

I looked down the bar at the three other men. Two were regulars, Tyel and Rynel Switchbrothel , brothers and tenders of a local dry goods supply. The other, the fancy dandy Myele had mentioned earlier, looked outlandish with an odd purple and red cap with three black feathers. That getup alone would be cause for a fight in some taverns.

Something about the dandy caught my attention. An average-looking sort (aside from his costume), he had a moustache, a bit of long, curled hair on his chin, and braided hair that dangled down to the middle of his back. He wore a shiny black cloak adorned with a tapestry illustrating an old tale of some sort, but nothing from around these parts. The face looked familiar, despite the unfamiliarity of his hair and getup.

He turned and looked down at me and we exchanged glances. He said something to Myele , who replied and tilted her head in my direction. The man stood up, took his mug, and walked over to me.

“Othum Vurbishum ,” he said.

“That is my name,” I replied, not really in the mood for idle chatter with strangers.

“Zok

Terrabok ,” he replied.

It’s a good thing my mug was on the bar when he said that, as I started at the sound. I took a closer look at the man. Yes, it was he. As I slowly rose from my stool, he began to back off.

“Othum

, old friend. It’s been many a moon since we last spoke, and although we may have departed with a harsh word, I am certain our long years of friendship bear more weight on our mutual respect and admiration than a moment of youthful passion.” He stepped back two more steps as I approached until he backed into a table. He removed his cap, pressing it against his chest. “Remember the times together? All those bawdy, memorable nights? Like brothers! We drank, we caroused, we sang, we seduced…”

That was it. Grasping each shoulder in a hand, I lifted him over my head and threw him into the air. A roar of amusement rose from the outlander’s table, followed by applause. Airborne, Zok ’s body struck a rafter, and came down where I caught him firmly above my head. I carried him to the wall, tossed him up and around, and placed him rudely, but firmly, on his feet before me.

“Well, that’s more like my old Othum ,” he gasped. “Now that we’ve exchanged pleasantries…”

His voice tailed off into a moan as I lifted him by the folds of his cloak, causing him to cough and choke as it tightened around his neck. I shoved him against the wall.

“Where is she?” I asked.

You’d think that time would have soothed my rage against the man who stole the only woman I’d ever loved, but I guess it hadn’t.

“She,” he said, gagging. He pointed toward his throat with one hand. His other hand went into his pocket. I suspected he was reaching for a tiny dagger or something, when suddenly an odd-

smelling yellow mist rose from the pocket where his hand had went. I felt a tingling sensation, then I began to relax. I might have even smiled. I loosened my grip on his cloak. “Yes, she. Assuming you mean…of course she’s who you mean. Well, uh, er, she uh…she’s in Mrenthenall of the Northern Erplands .”

“Why there?”

I was beginning to calm down.

“By her own decision, of course,” said Zok

. “She was too much woman for even I, and I deeply regret the temporary insanity that overcame me when I allowed her to entice me to leave Blueball with her on a whim.”

I still remember the look in his eyes, a look he would only show one other time during our many travels together. It was a hint of fear, but I still don’t know for sure if it was contrived or genuine. If genuine, it wasn’t a deep fear because he knew me too well, despite our years apart. Maybe he was testing me to see what kind of man I was. Either way, the look of compassion in his eyes, if not genuine, fooled me at the time and I eased my grip on his cloak.

“She was my only love,” I said.

He shook his head and looked down. “I know.”

“Is this supposed to be a Prynothian

melodrama or a Brenwan bar-fight?” yelled one of the young outlanders. “Make your choice, then either do it right or let us be about our business without these distractions.”

I nudged Zok aside and walked over to the Rengorian table. I folded my arms and looked down at them. I tried to look as threatening as a grease-stained giant in a cook’s garb could look.

Then Zok strode to the table and interrupted, grandly waving his cloak as he spoke: “Forgive the odd custom of reunion greetings in this little Kingdom of Oce . We can be an eccentric lot, to be sure. Othum , my old carousing mate, and I have been parted for seventeen moon-seasons and this is our way of reuniting after such a time apart. We are, however, ever-welcome of outlanders—with a particular welcome for those who bring tidings of mutual enrichment.”

The outlanders were a rough-looking bunch. The boys—or they could have been young men, it was hard to tell—were dressed in animal skins. Their armour was engraved with illustrations of ferocious beasts. Their skin looked like aged wrinkled leather, their eyes small and probing. They looked like they’d be quick to get drunk and even quicker to fight.

“Forgive my men,” said the old woman

, whose skin was so wrinkled it looked like the fine stripes of a marsh-cat. “I am Nuurdia, and these men answer to me. They are sometimes overzealous in their enjoyment of life.”

Myele walked over to their table. “Did I hear something about riches?”

“You did,” said Nuurdia .

Myele pulled up a chair from another table and sat down next to Nuurdia . “What’s you got to offer?” she asked.

Zok and I took seats at a table nearby and began to listen.

“I see most of your customers are men,” said Nuurdia .

“Women got better sense,” said Myele .

“I’ve got something men like better than ale. Something they’ll give their hard-won gold for.” She folded her hands on her lap and paused.

“Just tell me what you got. I’m a busy woman.”

Nuurdia smiled and sipped from a glass of juice. “You let out some rooms in back, I understand. What is your fee?”

“Three gold per day.”

“I expect if the room came with a woman you could up that ten-fold.”

“Who be these women?” asked Myele

. “Not Ocian, I would be sure of that.”

“Pretty women,” said Nuurdia . “Women so pretty that no man in Blueball, or even the whole Kingdom of Oce, could resist one.”

Her men began to murmur and nod their heads in agreement, but it seemed rehearsed.

Myele seemed taken aback. “You mean you’re here to sell me some women?”

“They are Yherrman,” she said.

“Yherrman?” cried Zok. He suddenly rose from his seat and approached their table. “Forgive me. I could not help over-hearing a part of your conversation. You are merchants of Yherrman women?”

“You hear right,” said Nuurdia

. “Now please let me be about my business with the proprietor of this establishment.” She turned away from Zok .

“But honored madam,” said Zok . “I’ve a business interest also. I operate twenty-three taverns—though not this one, of course—scattered mostly about the backroads of the Reaches of Ruuda and the boat moorings along the Brun and Scythenia rivers west of Ruuda. I would like to improve my services to customers and increase my earnings.”

“Then you have come to the right place,” said the woman. “There is no greater service to a weary and lonely traveler than the companionship of a Yherrman female.”

“So I’ve heard,” said Zok

.

“And you can have them all,” said Myele , standing up at the table. “I’m an innkeeper, not a whoremonger.” She walked away and went about her business.

“You do not look the part of the kind of person I would expect be doing business with,” said Nuurdia , turning towards Zok again.

“Very good,” he said . “My guise is a success.”

“However,” she replied, “I have done mutually profitable business with far less seemly traders than you.”

“Then let’s talk business,” said Zok

. He turned toward me, sitting within earshot of the bar. “Two pitchers of the proprietor’s finest reserve!”

Myele returned to the table in a breath and heartbeat with the ale. “That’ll be twenty copper coins for the two.”

Zok removed his pouch and took out one gold coin and placed it in her hand.

“So,” said Zok . “You are Rengorians. How are things back in the mighty kingdom? Haven’t been there in some time.”

“Prosperity continues to grow,” said Nuurdia .

“Females from Yherrma.” Zok whistled, then leaned back in his chair. “Each a treasure!” He looked around the tavern, as if expecting to see a Yherrman woman somewhere. “Rengorians have always been expert on the qualities of Yherrmans. I assume they are housed locally?”

“Correct,” said the Rengorian woman.

“How many can you deliver tonight, and at what cost?”