Shirking the Fuse!
It’s important to note before proceeding in with our tale, that the Poet & Peasant Pub is located quite close to the quite popular Oceanside gambling casino, Hermes Rest, well known to be an underworld held establishment!
Now one would think, given the clientele of the locals, along with Brute’s lack of toleration for rowdiness, that the Poet & Peasant Pub would be almost void of patrons.
But, thanks to the influx of thirsty gamblers looking for a cheaper price of a pint than that offered at the casino resort, the place is usually packed!
Especially on weekends when the younger gentry from wealthier areas uptown who want a bit of excitement by mingling in with a dicey crowd, find it by going down to that somewhat chancy side of town.
They start up gambling a bit at the casino, then gather upon the Poet & Peasant Pub, to either celebrate their winnings or drown their losses!
They do this, knowing that they will be fairly safe within the ancient, blackened interior of the large pub as they rub elbows with perhaps ( shall we say?) the least desirable members of their society.
And so, we now come to the evening of our tale: an early fall evening, full harvest moon just peaking over the tall masts of the ships docked in the small, fog-shrouded harbour that was the bread and butter of the town that surrounded it.
It is a crowded Friday night!
The cobblestone streets are rather full of sailors in port, college students on a holiday weekend, with all that lot mixed in with the wealthier, more daring of the townsfolk.
The narrow sidewalks that line the cobblestone street are crowded with a score or more of happily liquored souls wandering to and from the casino, bar to bar, in search of satisfying whatever the reason is that brings them out to this area.
As one looks upon this scene, they may notice a rather handsome, exceedingly well-dressed couple, swishing in and out amongst the happy throngs of hearty souls…
He is nattily dressed in a hounds-tooth tweedy suit, gold fob, and chain that crosses his waistcoat ending with a large gold pocket watch, a black bowler is perched on his head, and a long black umbrella held in the crouch of his arm.
He is attentively escorting the rather fetchingly pretty lady that is accompanying him.
This lass is enticingly clad in a long violet dress of silk and lace, wearing a pretty sapphire necklace with matching earrings that all glitter in the gas street lamps as she weaves in and out of the rough crowd.
Their eyes are inquisitively darting to and fro, taking in the area as they walk.
The couple makes their way carefully along the wooden planks of the dock’s sidewalks, peering cautiously inside the doors, gawking at the interiors of the noisy pubs and their rough-looking patrons as they pass on buy.
They stop outside the open metal-bound oak doors of the Poet and Peasant Pub and peer inquisitively inside.
Just as they do, a rather thin chap with a perpetually smiling face comes up unseen from across the road.
He is wearing old worn canvas trousers, a weather-worn sailor blouse, and a flat cap on his head that comes upon them from behind. Long wisps of sun-weathered sandy blonde hair fall in strings from the cap, some of them tied into a short ponytail. He is rather young, but the look in his keen brite blue eyes are those of a much older, perhaps even wiser man.
He stands behind the couple, patting them both on the back with a joyful cheerio.
As they both turn their heads in a rather annoyed fashion, he grins, “Better In than out Jack always says!“, and enthusiastically parts the two as he goes on past them inside.
The Jack is Back!