Oatha settled on one of the less rowdy saloons for his nightcap, pushing through the throng of revelers to get in line behind a man at a barstool nursing three brimming shots, the surface of the whiskies trembling from the vibration of bootstomps on floorboards. Hands grazed his shoulders and he turned to see a toothless, blond whore in nothing but stockings and a corset grinning at him. “Bet you could use a trim,” she said. “Not tonight.” She went on through the crowd, availing her services, and through the smoky lowlight, Oatha caught shards of his grimy reflection in the constellation of liquor bottles behind the bar. He’d been waiting ten minutes for the barkeep to notice him, when a voice lifted above the din, “You gotta yell out you wanna drink in this shithole!” Oatha glanced back, saw a pale, smoothshaven man of thirty or so waving him over, his face half-obscured by dirty, chin-length yellow hair. At the table sat three men, and the one who’d called out to him motioned to an uncorked bottle of whiskey upon which the trio had already inflicted substantial damage.
