The Crossroads

Sam snuffed out his cigarette in the brown mud at his feet, pulled his fedora down against the rain and stepped back into deeper shadow as three orcs stepped out of the Crossroads Saloon, mounted their wargs and headed away down Bastard Street. He’d been watching the G’arg’nak brothers for weeks. As nasty tempered and foul smelling as they were, what really had his interest was that one of them was a Russian spy.

Sam crossed the road and stepped into the saloon. From the bar, Rosie burbled her usual greeting.

“Hewwo, Sam.”

He sat at one of the empty tables. Presently, he felt Rosie caressing his right shoulder, left arm and right leg as she put the customary scotch in front of him with her remaining brachial tentacle. He sank back gently into her lactation patches and felt them soften and warm as they heaved and enfolded him. Damn, that feels good, he thought.

He recognized Marshal Zane’s voice.

“Rosie. Sam.” He paused. “You on a case, Sam?”

“Not at the moment. What can I do for you, Marshal?”

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