The Bridgetown Survival Guide

After much deliberation, it was decided that there was no better place to start the tour than at town hall; which many people look to as the beating heart of the city, and the rest think of as a festering tumour that they haven’t been able to cut out yet. It was built at a time when the town was just finding its feet and progressing from a random collection of buildings to the town that most sensible people know and fear today. Rumour has it that there is enough space inside to house the entire town so long as they don’t need to breathe, and that the architecture inside is breathtakingly beautiful to behold. However, rumour is all the townsfolk have to go on; the general public has never set foot inside, and if the current mayor has his way, they never will. On the day of the grand opening, the mayor decided that as it was such a grandiose building, indeed the grandest in the entire town, that nowhere else would do as his private residence, and so he strode through the doorway and slammed the polished oak doors behind him. There were complaints of course and attempts at restoring the building to its rightful function but they never seemed to gather momentum and the key instigators in these plots had a bad habit of dying. However the brave men of The Bridgetown Survival Guide have an informant inside the lion’s den who is willing to share with the town his impressions of the mayor’s home and what it’s like to work under such a tyrannical dictator. His name was Wesley Lily, and this is his story…

The man was a tyrant, a bloody tyrant, and if Wesley had to suffer one more term as his Aide then he would have to flee the city. He knew from the beginning that the man had built his corrupt little town upon the downtrodden foundation of the mewling masses, and for the sake of power and influence Wesley could stomach that, but he had to put his foot down in the case of the mayors, umm, feet. After all there were limits to what even he could tolerate, and as a proud and lifelong bootlicker he had built up considerable tolerance in the face of eccentric demands. But nobody should have to suffer through washing that repulsive man’s feet and clipping his nails.

The toenails were yellowing and brittle and reeked of the most repugnant cheese while his bunions and callouses could shred your skin as easily as sandpaper. The last poor sot, a lad from the streets named Wilkins, that had performed the job had been forced into retirement after the unfortunate loss of both of his eyes. Wesley shivered at the memory and pulled his waistcoat tight about him, like the rest of the mayor his toenail refused to give up that which it had claimed, and when the apothecary tried to remove the nails from Wilkin’s eyes he ended up pulling the eyes out with them. The apothecary apologised of course and dutifully tried to put the eyes back in their sockets but the poor lads pained thrashing and the fact that the eyes were still pierced by lengths or yellowing nail meant it was a lost cause.

With the boy gone the job had apparently fallen to Wesley and he had taken to it with his eyes closed and his stomach threatening mutiny. All the while that evil git had sat there looking unrepentantly smug as if to say, this is the power I wield little man, the kind of power you will never have. Well enough was enough in that regard. Wesley had put his ear to the ground, metaphorically of course because the floors of Mayors Hall hadn’t been washed properly in years, and listened for whisperings from his many spies and informants until at last he found what he needed, the spark of revolution.

The Mayor’s political rivals had always been circling, looking for a weakening of his iron grip on Bridgetown, and with the information Wesley could provide for them they could hamstring the old lion for good. He couldn’t help twitching around the seemingly empty hallway, with its hidden passages and spyholes, whenever these thoughts came to the front of his mind, as if the mere thought of stabbing his master in the back would give away his guilt, and when someone hammered on the heavy front doors he almost shrieked in fear.

Wesley watched from the shadows as one of the servants opened the door and admitted a group of buxom and rosy cheeked young women who were undoubtedly here for the Mayor’s aerobics exercise. As he watched them disappear down the hall the cunning part of Wesley’s brain slunk into action and pointed out that this was the perfect time to put his plan into action, when the old man was at his most distracted. As the servant returned he snapped out an arm and grabbed the illiterate brat, feeling a twinge of satisfaction as the boy shrieked in surprise, and pulled him towards the front doors.

“Take this” he said handing over a note “give it to one of the girls at Lady Lust’s and ask them to pass it on to their gentlemen guests”

He had the idiot boy repeat his instructions to make sure they were understood before sending him running with a clip behind his ear. The mayor’s rivals, like all men of self-importance, wouldn’t rush to meet him so he didn’t have to leave right away; he might even have time to spy on some of the girls before the Mayor arrived for his workout.

A half hour later and he was trudging along the twisted streets and treacherous cobbles of Bridgetown. He had been careful in choosing his meeting place to make sure that neither he, nor his guests, would have to cross any of the nine bridges that spanned the width of the River Shits, because the Mayor had an unnerving knowledge of exactly who crossed his bridges. Although it was risky holding this meeting on the east side of the river, in the mayor’s backyard so to speak, it was a risk he would have to take. He didn’t have to worry too much though because the looming ramshackle buildings that walled in the alleyways hid him from sight and the labyrinthine layout of the town meant that nobody could follow him if he chose to evade them.

His choice of venue, the Jockey’s Flounce, was in the east-side fourth-district which meant he had to cross two of the cities nine lethal carriage roads that cut through the town towards the bridges. Rather than risk life or limb dodging between the carriages and wagons that tore along the road at all times of the day he entered a house on one side of the road and handed a single gold piece to the family leaving inside. The mother of the house flashed him a crooked smile and led him up a lopsided staircase to the first floor and opened an unusually large window. After the first dozen or so deaths of pedestrians trying to cross one of the carriage roads some enterprising man who lived right next to the road made a deal with his neighbour whose house bordered the other side of the road. With a bit of finagling, for the traffic along the roads never ceased even at night, they built an overpass out between their first floor windows and for the cost of a single gold piece allowed folk to cross in relative safety.

The mayor might have objected but even he needed to cross the carriage roads at times and he appreciated the entrepreneurial spirit that was no doubt inspired by the nine old bridges that made his town so prosperous, so he allowed the overpass to remain. Once the idea had spread through local gossip there were overpasses popping up all over the town until there wasn’t a length of the carriage roads that didn’t have at least one. Wesley could not deny that they were safer so long as you weren’t drunk but it still made his stomach flutter in fear as the wooden construct wobbled beneath his feet. He had to cross a second overpass to get from the fifth to the fourth district and once his feet were planted on solid ground he felt much better.

The Jockey’s flounce was one of many drinking establishments throughout the town and nestled between two family homes like a pit dog in a nursery. Stepping from the fetid but relatively fresh air of the streets into the ashen cloud of tobacco that constituted the atmosphere of the pub caused him to experience what the regulars called fish lungs, as Wesley struggled to breathe like a fish out of water until he adjusted. As you were not allowed to take up space at the tables without a drink he ordered two fingers of what might have been whiskey and took up a place in one of the pubs many shadowy corners. He ended up having to wait another hour before his guests showed up and was disappointed when they did. They moved like a pack of sheep flinching at loud sounds and following some instinctual herd mentality that marked them out to any and all predators in the room. Wesley waved them over and they sat facing him in the booth.

“Well Mr Lily, we all know why we’re here. What information can you provide us to undermine the Mayor?”

He turned to the speaker, a balding old man with the kind of staunch posture that hinted at a military background; perhaps this group had a chance after all.

“Very well gentlemen, how about we begin with a story from the very founding of Bridgetown itself. The drowning of the Red Robin”

The moment those words left his lips the attention of every man at the table focused on him with the rabid intensity of scavengers. With a grin Wesley sat forwards and they all huddled together for him to tell the story. Back when he was only young and the town had yet to earn its status there was fierce competition between the toll bridges and the ferry service that allowed people to cross the river. Because the stretch of water neatly divided almost the whole continent there was always a demand to cross and not nearly enough places where folk could cross unaided.

The Ferry service of Arthur Coxswain was the first to spring up, all they had to do was sail some boats up the river from the estuary, and started to make considerable money ferrying people, goods and even whole carriages across the water. However a tiny little settlement with one rotting wooden bridge saw the gold being made and felt their hearts swell with greed. Risking ruin they started building more bridges until nine of them, strong and sturdy, spanned the river. With the advantage of faster crossing, and the fact that they neatly undercut the prices of the ferries, the toll bridges gained popularity until they were making almost as much profit as Arthur himself.

What had been a rich source of income for one was not abundant enough for two and it quickly became obvious that either the bridges or the ferries were going to have to go out of business, which was when both sides started playing dirty. Violence erupted in the streets of Bridgetown whenever a sailor so much as set foot on their streets and many a resident was found drowned in the river under suspicious circumstances, if they were foolish enough to stray outside the town. It seemed that both sides were going to destroy the other when one man entered the fray and changed the game entirely, the man that was to become to mayor.

He was a patient man and a risk taker too and with the livelihoods of the townsfolk on the line he took the biggest risk of his life. He allowed Arthur to build a ferry, with only a few token attempts at sabotage, which was called the Red Robin, a leviathan of a boat that could carry hundreds of people and dozens of carriages across the river in one go. This new boat would be the end of Bridgetown and its toll bridges and the flagship of Arthur’s business empire, if only things had gone to plan. On its maiden voyage across one of the wider stretches of the River Shits the Red Robin sank into the icy depths and its passengers, of whom only a handful could swim, drowned as they attempted to escape.

“Yes Mr Lily we all know this story, everyone knows it in fact. What we want to know is the Mayor’s part in it”

Wesley had been getting rather into the atmosphere of the story, and just as far into his third whiskey, and he pouted for a moment at the interruption before regaining his train of thought.

“His was a subtle plan, one that hinged on using his enemies power to his advantage. Genius, but wasted genius if it weren’t for the inhuman efforts of his assassin”

Wesley leaned forwards again and was miffed to find the others leaning back, unaware that his whiskey tainted breath was building to vulgar levels, but he carried on his story regardless. Arthur’s company went down in flames alongside his reputation, and more than one grieving relative called for a charge of manslaughter, or failing that gross incompetence. What nobody, not even Arthur, realised was that the drowning of the Red Robin was not his fault but the deathblow of the Mayor’s cunning plan. While lulling his enemy into a false sense of security the old man, for he was old even back then, hired a man from the harsh northern islands who came to be known as The Assassin.

According to gossip and urban legend, the only sources as nobody living had seen him, the assassin was almost seven foot tall, a giant even among northerners, and wore an oilskin overcoat that was the same dark and murky green of the river. Wearing boots of iron that forced the ground to tremble where he stepped the assassin walked into the river, coming at the Red Robin from the opposite direction on its maiden voyage. Submerged and undetectable in the opaque water of an overly polluted river he walked until he felt the passing of the leviathan ship above his head. Using the claw of a sledgehammer that he required two hands to lift, one that a normal man couldn’t lift at all, he rent gaping holes in the hull of the boat with his unbelievable strength.

The first few holes the boat might have survived, because Arthur was a superb craftsman, but as the boat continued to pass overhead he continued to punch holes into its increasingly porous underbelly until the water finally swallowed the boat. With his task complete the assassin simply walked back out of the river on the opposite side he’d began and walked off into the night, towards the payment his master the mayor had waiting.

“Oh come on that’s absolute poppycock! Even if the rest of it were possible nobody could survive underwater for that long”

Through the alcoholic haze settling over his thoughts Wesley argued the merits of this argument and decided it was absolute rubbish. There were many theories that got retold and augmented every night in the Jockey and many other pubs across the town, most of them were flights of fancy but a few rang true. Wesley believed that it must be something to do with the iron mask the assassin wore to hide his face, some contraption from the industrious south that allowed him to survive without air for a time. He debated informing his newly found colleagues of this but decided against it, they were not an imaginative bunch.

“The method may have been exaggerated but I have proof that the mayor paid a large sum of money to an anonymous man on the very night that the Red Robin sank. There are enough relatives of victims of the drowning to make the old man’s life next to impossible if this got out”

Again that flicker of greed that mirrored his own flashed across their eyes and he knew he had their attention again. They could harp on all they wanted about taking power for the good of the people, the betterment of the town, but they wanted power just like him.

“This is powerful information Mr Lily but ultimately it is the opinion of the townsfolk that matter. They may feign shock and outrage but the Mayor’s actions put gold in their pockets and most of them did not have family on the Red Robin. What else can you tell us?”

For one dizzy moment he considered telling them about Down Below and the secrets that dark part of the city held, but that would be folly even for a snitch. Instead he reached into his pocket to consult a sizable list of crimes and picked a few choice morsels from his information.

“Very well if it’s crimes against the town you want, how about I tell you of Elias Winters”

Wesley remembered the man well as he started telling the story, a pioneer in the field of manufacturing and the cities first big step since the building of the bridges. At great expense Elias had managed to procure a packet of land large enough to hold dozens of houses, certainly enough to make a lot of gold. However instead of turning an easy profit, he had taken the land and built something extraordinary, the town’s first factory. It was an exciting time for the poor and the downtrodden of the town that had left everything behind to come seek their riches, and fallen in the mud like so many others, because this factory would offer them a chance to learn.

Elias was smart enough to realise that money was what controlled Bridgetown and the bridge-masters that owned the bridges controlled the money in the town, unless he could create another source of income, one not reliant on the bridges. The mayor was no fool and saw the factory as a danger to his control over the city and its inhabitants so he launched a massive campaign to cripple the factory. While he sent spies, saboteurs and thugs in the night to settle things in an underhanded fashion he had one of the town’s law firms Faust Inc. wage a daylight war of triplicate forms, building permits and an ungodly amount of fees. Although it crippled him financially Elias met him blow for blow, hiring the cities only other law firm Crowley and Co to fend off the bloodthirsty lawyers, fighting fire with fire.

“Wait I remember hearing about this. For almost six months the city went mad from all account. There was murder in the streets, scandals in the papers, and all out gang wars. Are you saying that all stemmed from the Elias vs Bridgetown court case?”

Indeed it had and Wesley remembered it well for it was the time when he had first entered the city, on the tail end of the conflict. A self-imposed curfew was in effect as the townsfolk took cover from an ever more violent war between the two law firms as they staked their professional pride on the outcome.

“Now in the official story Elias died in a fire which conveniently burnt him and his factory to the ground, but you should know better by now”

Wesley looked and he could see that they did know better, they were looking downright apprehensive as he pulled another receipt from his pocket, proof of the assassin’s second payment the night before the fire. Elias died in his factory, the warping flames hiding any evidence of the fact his head had been caved in by the same hammer that the assassin used to sink the Red Robin. The mayor won the case by default and any chance of the factory being rebuilt was dashed against the rocks, along with the flickering hopes of the town. Everybody knew it was the mayor, and everyone was reasonably sure it was his pet assassin that had done the deed, but nobody could prove it, and nobody had the gall to try.

“So you see gentlemen, with proof of his assassin’s involvement in the murder of Elias you could turn the whole town against him”

He was expecting a round of applause, much patting on his back, and maybe even another celebratory glass of whiskey. Instead all he was met with were disturbed faces and furtive glances towards the doorway.

“Thank you for taking the time to see us Mr Lily, but I’m afraid we must decline your offer”

“What?”

His scream drew more than a little attention from the pub and their covert little corner of the room was suddenly under scrutiny.

“I’m sorry Mr Lily but we have family, all of us and I have no doubt that the Mayor would target them and us using this assassin you’ve been telling us about. I won’t risk my family, not even in a rigged election”

Wesley spluttered with anger as one by one they all rose from their seats and tipped their hats to him before exiting the establishment. With his good mood wasted and whiskey souring in his stomach there was nothing to do but to return to the Town Hall. As he sloshed his way down the narrow alleys of Bridgetown Wesley decided that this had been a waste of a perfectly good day. It had been the mayor’s aerobics workout and that always left the lecherous man in a good mood, especially if the girls were as, perky, as the last lot. The cunning side of his brain, the only part not drowning in alcohol, cried as it imagined the juicy titbits the old man had dropped while his guard was down.

Those fools he had turned to were spineless cowards who didn’t have the balls to stand up to their mothers, let alone the mayor. There were more skeletons in the old man’s closet than the morgue had on their slabs but they were too afraid to use any of them for blackmail, all because of that stupid assassin.

“Bloody Prick, I bet you aren’t even real are you. Just some bogeyman the mayor dreamed up to scare away his competition”

In fact the more he considered this idea the more it made sense, nobody could be that strong after all. He felt a mousey smile creep across his face and congratulated himself on being the first person to figure it out; he had the mayor by the balls with this nugget of wisdom. Feeling a sudden rejuvenation of the spring in his step he turned towards the repurposed town hall that had served as the mayor’s mansion since its construction.

He turned left onto blind man’s bluff, unable to appreciate the irony, and ran headfirst into a wall. He fell down into the muddy sludge that lined the cobbles and said some creative and insulting things about the Bridgetown builders. Then he looked up and felt his heart grow cold. It was not a wall but a man he’d crashed into, who was wearing boots of black iron that looked to weigh more than Wesley and gauntlets big enough to crush a man’s skull with one hand. His eyes continued upwards, taking note of the heavy leather trench coat that was dripping with the slimy soup that passed for water in the town’s river and the barnacles resting on the shoulders like armour plates.

His eyes finally reached their destination, almost seven foot up, as he tried to look into the eyes of the man only to find them covered by a mask shaped like the face of a demon. Only the assassin’s mouth remained uncovered, quirked slightly at the corner in an ironic smile.

“Bloody Prick?”

The voice was broad and strong but unmistakeably female and Wesley felt his mouth drop open in surprise, the stories had left out that particular detail. She reached for the hammer secured on her back, a menacing slab of metal that a normal man couldn’t lift and that she could only lift with two hands, then raised it high with a grunt of effort.

“I suppose it’s too late to beg for mercy”

The hammer fell like an avalanche and his brain had just enough rational thought left to scream “Mummy!” before it got splattered across the cobbled streets. His last sight was a tall and merciless figure, hidden in the shadows of the street like the reaper himself. What he did not see was the mayor watching through a telescope from one of town halls generously spacious balconies wearing a viciously pleased smile.

When Wesley woke up, a surprise in and of itself, it was to the sound of an old-fashioned quill scratching along a sheaf of parchment. He was stood in front of a raised desk that looked like it belonged in a courtroom, and was staring up at a man whose identity was a complete mystery. This stranger made no effort to conceal his appearance, indeed the room was well lit to assist with whatever notes he was taking, but despite a near photographic memory of every person of importance within the town Wesley had no idea what his name was. He was a person of importance though, judging from the expensively rich furnishings throughout the room, and the fact that the room itself was large enough to hold a house. But his name remained a mystery. After maybe five minutes of standing in silence as the stranger scratched at his parchment Wesley cleared his throat to try and get the insufferable man’s attention. With deliberate care the stranger placed his quill to one side and blew gently on the parchment to dry the ink, and only then did he acknowledge his guests existence.

“Excuse me sir, would you care to explain where I am. The last thing I remember was…”

His mind provided him information of the crunch splat variety and he shivered, he couldn’t have died, could he? He looked closer at his hands and realised with a quiver of fear that they were translucent, he could just about see the floor of the courtroom through his forearms. The man from behind his desk smiled a chilly little smile and retrieved another sheaf of paper from a stack.

“The last thing you remember was dying Mr Lily, and one of the more unpleasant ways to go I must say. As for the question of where, why don’t we call this place the courtroom, and you may call me The Judge”

Wesley looked around and had to admit that all it would take was a few more people to make this place into exactly that.

“And why am I here?”

“Not so long ago you made a deal with me Mr Lily. I used my considerable influence and resources to give you the power and authority you requested. You are here to fulfil your side of our contract”

A little chip of ice settled into Wesley’s stomach as he remembered a brazenly drunk young man during his early days in Bridgetown, and a mysterious stranger that promised him everything he ever wanted.

“Power and authority?” he asked incredulous “how did I get that being errand boy to that foul old man?”

The chilly little smile on the Judge’s face slipped away to be replaced by a glare of arctic ferocity.

“You had the chance to become the power behind the throne, to influence the fate of a whole town from the shadows while the fat old man took the blame for any failures. I gave you an opportunity and you squandered it, this does not give you reason to renege on our deal”

Wesley looked for another argument but his brain stuttered under the sheer weight of authority the man carried around; even the cunning part of his brain had finally jumped ship. He bowed his head in obedience and asked in a sombre voice.

“So what happens now?”

The judge rifled through a pile of scrolls on his desk until he found one in particular and uncurled it with a flourish of his wrist.

“Now your soul belongs to me, and I will keep it until such time as I find a use for it”

Wesley felt an irresistible force pull him forwards, drawn to the scarlet signature on the bottom of the page. He flew apart like mist and cried with grief as his soul was drawn into the contract he’d so foolishly signed, and then nothing as the scroll was rolled up and sealed with a blob of wax. The Judge felt a satisfied smile cross his face, only for a moment, before a man in a crisp black suit stepped up to the left of the desk, his face a passive mask.

“Shall I put him with the others sir?”

The Judge smiled at his butler, always appearing without warning and always when required. He passed the scroll down from his desk and went back to organising the others.

“Thank you Winston and a spot of tea as well if you would be so kind”

He wasn’t even surprised to hear the chink of china as Winston placed a steaming cup of tea on the desk within easy reach before taking the scroll and leaving the courtroom.

…It was a terrible thing what happened to young Mr Lily but the town appreciated him being able to give such a valuable insight into Town Hall and the illustrious mayor and coincidentally they also have him to thank for giving rise to the popular expression “Flat as a rat” warning folks that it’s never good to rat on your superiors, at least not where they can overhear it. Now sadly for those adventurous types among you the mayor’s ban on the public is still in effect so there’s no visiting the Town Hall in person, but at the back of this guide are directions to help you find the notable Jockey’s Flounce and blind man’s bluff, the very spot where poor Wesley met his gruesome end. Have fun and remember to keep your head down, you never know when some broad with a hammer will come to knock it off.