There are a few things I have to grapple with:
1. I am a crap writer.
2. No one is interested in anthropomorphized animals anymore.
3. This might be yet one of the other thousand things I have written that "might go somewhere." or it might not.
They say you don’t own a inn, a inn owns you.
And, for a certain value of true, that statement is as true as saying “You don’t smell a pair of socks, you smell the pair of feet that wears them.”
I guess what I’m saying is that things as may be are true or not true, but most of what most people say is bollocks.
Take that inn, for example.
It may own me in a way in that the damn thing keeps trying to return to nature, what with mushrooms growing in the thatch and the wood rotting as soon as you look at it and the guests sleeping in beds they don’t intend to pay for and pissing in them when they get caught leaving.
But I own it in that when the latest bodge job is done and what was sprouting or rotted or skipped out is gathered up and tossed on a bonfire next to the pig sty as a warning to all the rest, everything sort of behaves for a while. And the non-paying guests, while only singed and not really burned too badly, they try to bring the local constabulary in, what remembers where the best ale comes from and makes them pay up and I promises not to start any more fires and things go as well as can be at a inn just off the track of adventurers can.
Those of you know the stories, allow me to tap the side o’ me nose knowingly and I’ll try not to splat any matter in your tea. We knows what goes on at a inn just off the track of adventurers.
And let me say that this inn, it may own me a trice, but things that lie therein, I own them. And them in power, be they good or bad or naïve or indifferent, they knows it. And like a singed debtor working in the pig sty next to the burn pile to work off the damage done, they know toeing the line is the only way the inn At the Sign of the Spoon and Carrot will ever do business with them.
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