Piss & Blood

originally posted March 14, 2007

"Tal, little fellow," I said to him.
He did not reply. Urts rarely do. He is a handsome little sod, for the filthy, little bugger that he truly is. Rather curious, too. Apparently, I am fascinating to dirty rodents with a nervous tic."I have no food for you," I informed him politely. It does not hurt to be polite. Why should I waste his entire day, only for him to discover there may have been a morsel elsewhere that he has forsaken simply to entertain my company? He does not seem dismayed by the news, however. As I write, he stands on his hindlegs, forepaws up in front of him, sniffing nervously at the air. I know what he smells.
I am up early this morning, sitting on the front stoop of the Boarding House in the Anbar. So much occurs in this district that is either beyond the Reach of Order or simply not acknowledged. Yes, people turn their noses up at it. I eke out an honest living here, putting several of the animals I own to work each day from the first light to the last. I expect Portia and the Six Girl will be hurrying out to their appointed neighborhoods, the taste of gruel fresh on their tongues, eager to earn. The two of them are kept out of doors longer than their chain sisters. Others are kept inside, servicing walk-up clientele. Still others, Nirah for example, have peripheral duties. She will ready the gruel each morning. On days that I am here overnight, she will prepare my morning repast as well.
It smells like piss out here. It really is not an attractive neighborhood during the day. The allure of the lamps and the heady scent of a whore's perfume, the colorful language and spirited, brutal fisticuffs that color this neighborhood with the snuffing of Lar Torvis are not evident in the morning. Only the result of it all. Piss. And blood. Piss and blood. A drunk sleeping it off two doors down on against the outside wall of the tavern of which I can never quite recall the name. The name has weathered off the door, but the place is frequented regularly enough. Those that cannot, or will not, afford a certified Red Door Whore content themselves with the offerings to be had in that little piece of paradise. The girls are not bad stuff. I would not wish to slander the good name of the place of which I cannot recall the name. They are simply not three copper an ahn diversions.
In time, just before first light, just before the black girl and Six begin their workday, the street sweepers and cleaners will make their attempts. Or they won't. Some days the filth and detritus simply piles up. A magistrate and his men, similarly, may make their rounds. Or not. In any case, should the fellow and his men deign to make their appearance, it will be at a more civil hour. Perhaps the tenth or eleventh ahn. There are drunks to rouse, like the aforementioned fellow at the aforementioned tavern, of which I cannot recall the name. Some days there are murders to discover and, purportedly, to investigate. The alley seems clear, however, of slumped bodies. There is only piss. And blood. And a drunk fellow sleeping it off.
As you look around a district such as this, you realize that the careful planning of an area like the District of the Central Cylinder does not exist here. As there is a need, structures are built or torn down. In some cases a fire or a collapse is the impetus for new construction. As treacherous as this place may be, it does not want for residency. It is inexpensive to live here. When one insula crumbles, another is sure to crop up atop the ashes and rubble of the former.
While the thieves, vagrants & killers sleep, Szol of the Poets holds court. A chittering urt, a sleeping drunk, a puddle of piss and the blood-soaked street are my audience.