Post by The Love Ballad on Mar 6, 2020 4:04:21 GMT -5
It was another twilight in Loguetown, the unofficial jewel of the East. Hues of red, orange and gold met the crystal blue of the ocean by the docks. The natural beauty cut by the sight of wooden barges and steel and concrete buildings. The sounds of industry and work overshadowing the cawing of the gulls. Where once nature had seen fit to create the island, man had taken to conquering it, turning it into a town of his own making. A land of opportunity, and of despair.
Mag, of course, was feeling a lot more of the latter than the former. He hated how many marines there were running around the city, sticking their noses into his business. So what if his money was sourced through illegal means? And so what if his booze wasn't exactly safe for human consumption, it was still damn good at getting the job done. The thug mumbled to himself at the bar, not for the first time he found himself missing the irregulars who had pretended to be city watch back in his home. There was a lot to say about the green fields and tiny villages of shepherds and farmers from which he had hailed, but an abundance of law and order was not one of those things.
The pirate slammed back another pint of the lukewarm shite that the pub dared to call ale, letting the amber liquid flow down his gullet and fill his core. It was sad in a way, all he spent his money on was booze and gambling. But whenever he began to get depressed about his lot in life, the young thug had but one thing to remember, drinking and gambling were his damned passions. By hook or by crook, he would drink until he died!
And thus, on that rather uneventful evening in Loguetown, the pirate found himself in yet another dive bar masquerading as a pub, this one not 20 metres from the bright blue ocean itself. The food had been awful, some kind of shepherd's pie without potato. He had almost threatened the bar wench over that one. His pa's profession was once more insulted by that crime. He had little love left for the old man, but he'd be blighted if he didn't respect the geezer, and his good name had been taken in vain! Yet he had eaten it, and washed it down with close to a dozen pints of the house ale they served. Had he been any other man, Mag was sure that he would be drunk enough to collapse by now, but years on the bottle had strengthened his body to the poisons it regularly ingested. As such, the redheaded street tough found himself pleasantly buzzed and demanding yet another drink from the barkeep.
He had cut ties with his latest crew, and was probably going to try to sling the series of barrels of grog he'd been brewing over the past few months at the market over the next few weeks. Once he had the capital to set out again to the great blue ocean, with hopes of finally finding a group of men whose ambition matched his own. Mag was sick of the monotony his life had settled into, drink, fight, work, rob, drink, and so on and so on. By the great creator above, whatever he or she may be, the man wanted something a little greater. Drinking was one way to numb the aching for greatness, and thus he found himself indulging in his vice. Of course, deep down he hoped that it would combine with his second vice, fighting. A drunken brawl was the only time Mag truly felt alive.
"Another drink, lass!" Mag roared, aware that once again his internal conflict had spilled out into his words in the form of anger. Truth be told, he didn't care.
The young brunette, with her adorable baby-face and matching physique, or lack thereof, yelped an affirmative response and shyly returned to pouring him yet another glass of beer. The earlier bartender had been an older gentleman with a sailor's gait to him, but he was nowhere to be seen. As it stood, between the bartenders and the waitresses, the only staff appeared to be young attractive women. Experience told Mag that was trouble waiting to happen, a fight would start, either by some young dumb fool defending the honour from an even dumber drunken fool or by the general ruckus caused by drunken sailors and workers.
"H-here you are, sir," the young bartender said as she passed the drink to the pirate, almost half of it head.
Mag grunted and passed her the beri owed, before slamming the warm beer down his throat in one long chug. The bar was a shithole, that much was certain. The constant shouting by working class men only fastened that idea in his mind. All at once, Mag felt both at edge and at home, the perfect sense of comfortableness he had grown accustomed to in his six years at sea.
The redhead stole the half drunk pint from the passed out man to his left, and sipped at the beverage as he people watched over his shoulder. Seeing if anyone in the crowd of drunken revelers was anything more than yet another blue-collar drunkard like himself.