The darkest night [Closed: Smokestack vs. Konnal Ivanov]

[Gan Mann]

Smokestack was in a foul mood. It was one of those days where everything would go wrong. At the end of a day of hard labor, he had dragged himself to the nearest taver: the one he would always go when the blues struck him. It was the same crap as always. Reminiscing the times he had entered this tavern, he couldn’t remember a time he left the place unscathed. Every time he opened this door, the door his massive arm had now gripped, he came out several hours later refreshed by his or someone else’s blood. He liked it here.

He opened the door, accompanied by a slender moonbeam in this darkest of nights. He smelled the rancid stench of drunk lowlifes, scurrying around the tavern; everyone as ugly as the night. He felt right at his place here. Having come here before, he had noticed that no normal people had ever frequented this place. It were always the same swindlers, gamblers and despicable lowlifes who walked in this rotten place of wood, iron and vomit. It was a place worth devastating, for it was the only place Smokestack knew that was totally worthless. Even the long, wrinkle-ridden face of the bartender looked like it was begging to be smashed to pieces; this place was the most rage-inducing place Smokestack had ever been to. And it was exactly the reason why he liked it here.

Although there were thick clouds of smoke covering the whole tavern, the bartender seemed to recognize Smokestack immediately. Smokestack imagined this was most likely because of the two glowing cigars in his mouth, which were his defining feature. That, and his expensive clothes and his foul and frightful grimace. “So what’ll it be, hotshot?” the bartender asked him in a low, monotone, voice. “The usual.” Smokestack answered. After the bartender had finished filling his massive jug with almost pure alcohol, he payed him with a few golden coins. “Keep the change.” he said, smiling, as he knew this money was actually worth significantly less than it's gold equivalent. He walked to the left of the tavern near a window, where his table and chair were free. Pity. He had hoped he had somewhat of a reason to smash someone’s skull in.

He sat down on the chair, which was way too little to fit his grotesque figure, and it screeched as if it were crying for help. Smokestack laid down his club to the right of him, right under the window, while he himself was facing the door. He waited for the slightest opportunity to anger someone, someone he had not seen before. He extinguished his cigars, only to light two new cigars, further increasing the fat, husky cloud of smoke that filled every crevice of this hellhole.