by Kevin Hearne
The interior of the Dinny’s was a riot of half-shouted conversations, loud slurps of kuffee, halfling hiccups, and the scrape of cheap silverware on low-grade porcelain. Morgan regarded it all with wonder, but Morvin looked less than pleased.
“What’s the matter?” she asked him.
“Aw, nothin’. What they got here technically qualifies as food. But the man I used to work for, m’Lord Toby, had a habit of eatin’ very well and I got to partake of his leftovers, often as not. Kinda spoiled me, I think, what with his delicacies and gourmet doodads. But he’s dead now, so Dinny’s it is. The halflings eat it right often, and they seem a vigorous sort o’ people, not droppin’ dead from the grease burps or nothin’.”
Morgan did not tell him she was used to gourmet fare at her own father’s castle; for all of Morvin’s comfortably cheerful chattering, Morgan herself had said very little, revealing nothing of her past.
They were greeted by a smiling but tired halfling hostess, and she asked them to follow her. She carried menus that were practically as tall as she was. On the way to their booth, they passed a collection of four beefy, unshaven men who were paying keen attention to a red-and-yellow parrot. The parrot wore an eye patch, and Morgan thought she heard it say trrrreasurrrre as she passed. No wonder the men were interested.
Once at their booth she asked for directions to the boom-boom room and sanitation station and immediately excused herself to wash up. Said station was back by the entrance to the kitchen, and there she saw some singularly strange cylinders—drums, really—that had an oily gray substance oozing out from under their puffed-up tops.
EATUM, the drums said in tall black letters, but there was additional, smaller text above and below that word, which turned out to be an acronym. She stepped closer to read. The words Extraordinarily Affordable, Tasty, & Ubiquitous Meat explained the acronym. Below that was the line An MMA Product, plus a warning to refrigerate the contents of the drum after opening. There were no ingredients listed, however, which was curious and also a bit disturbing. Morgan had never heard of EATUM before, but this Dinny’s had enough to feed her father’s entire earldom for a month. And, even more disturbing, since when did meat come in drums? It certainly didn’t seem fresh, much less sanitary. Even Morvin’s ham jam had included an expiration date.
She was curious now to read the menu and see what other strange new foods she’d been missing out on all these years. She washed up quickly in the sanitation station and returned to her seat, where Morvin was frowning at said menu.
“They only have one heckin’ kind of gravy, and it ain’t my favorite kind,” he muttered. “And there’s a whole lotta stuff you can put in your hash browns, which makes me suspicious of said taters.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, why are they so eager to have you put all that heckin’ stuff in there? Ain’t the taters good all by their lonesome? Why they gotta distract your tongue with cheese and onions and whatnot? Skittered, encumbered, smoothered, ’n’ chonked. They’re tryin’ to cover up a secret, that’s why, and the secret is them taters ain’t no good.”
“You may have a point there,” Morgan said, but she privately doubted that Dinny’s had built its vast empire of eateries around a potato conspiracy. It was, after all, pretty hard to mess up a potato.
She scanned the menu and was surprised to discover that breakfast was served all day, which felt like a great rebellion. It appeared that most every dish came with a free side of EATUM—unless one wished to opt for fresh sausage or bacon for a hefty up-charge.
“Morvin, do you know what EATUM is?”
“It’s cheap meat,” he said. She waited, sure that he would continue at length, but he said nothing else.
“As in it comes from the halfling city of Cheapmeat in the Skyr?”
“Huh? Naw. As in it’s just affordable. Pretty tasty and you don’t get sick from it, which is really why you wanna avoid oysters, because wow: I seen things. Felt things! Things that was once inside me and then suddenly—horribly, at high velocity—wasn’t.”
“Okay, so scratch oysters for breakfast. But what is EATUM? What kind of meat?”
Morvin shrugged. “That’s tough to say. It’s really its own thing, because it’s marinated in summa them spices they grow down in the islands—I mean savory spices, not the super-hot kind. Tastes kinda like if you crossed snake nuggets with a badger loin.”
“I’ve not had either one of those, so that doesn’t help.”
“Well, try some EATUM if you wanna know. It don’t cost you nothin’ extra.”
Or, Morgan thought, I could just ask our server, who was approaching their table with a brilliant smile pasted on her face. She was a human woman with warm beige skin. The name tag on her tunic said COURTKNEE in capital letters, and underneath that was the revelation that she hailed from Fapsworth in the earldom of Grunting.
“Hellooo!” she cooed at them. “My name is Shoobie and I’ll be taking care of you today. Can I get you some kuffee or a Dewdrop Fizzy?”
“You’re not Courtknee?” Morgan asked, gesturing at the name tag.
“Oh! No, I forgot my badge at home, but the manager said I have to wear one anyway. You know how it is,” she said.
Morgan was unsettled by this news. The management appeared willing to lie to its customers. “Well, kuffee for sure, thanks.”
“Me too,” Morvin said.
“Scream cream, goat milk, or oat milk?” Shoobie asked.
They both asked for oat milk and then Morgan asked, “Shoobie, can you tell me what EATUM is made of?”
“Pure deliciousness,” she replied smoothly, and punctuated that with another brilliant smile. Morvin went so far as to opine that it was pure heckin’ deliciousness, and they shared a laugh about that because delicious things were hilarious, apparently. Morgan waited for them to subside before replying.
“I appreciate your enthusiastic review. But I wish to know specifically from which animal’s flesh it derives. Can you tell me that?”
Shoobie’s smile melted away like springtime snow, transforming to the frustrated grimace of someone who saw her tip dwindling. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t know.”
“Well, who does?”
Shoobie tapped her pencil against her order pad. “Nobody does.”
“You mean nobody here?”
“I mean nobody, anywhere, so far as I can tell. It’s just cheap, delicious meat. And meat’s meat, after all.”
“Where does EATUM come from, then?”
Shoobie shrugged. “I don’t know. We just receive our shipments and serve it up.”
“And you’re fine eating something when you don’t know what it is?”
“Well, I know it tastes good and doesn’t make me sick. Oysters, though—”
“Right?” Morvin said.
“Exactly!” Shoobie cried, pointing at him in triumph. “You know what I mean!”
“I do!” The two of them bonded for a while over a shared history of disastrous sea snot, then Shoobie departed to fetch their kuffee, and Morgan was left none the wiser.
“Doesn’t this mystery meat worry you?” she asked Morvin.
“Why should it? If it tastes good and I don’t die, then there ain’t nothin’ to worry about, is there?”
“But what if it’s kitten meat or something like that?”
“Cor, that would take a lot of kittens!”
Morgan tried to rein in her frustration. “But what if?”
“So what if it is? Something’s gotta eat it.”
“I beg your pardon? Nobody’s got to eat kittens!”
Morvin leaned forward. “I mean, workin’ on a farm like I do, a fella gets used to seein’ stuff get eaten. Everything eats something else. There are critters out there that actually eat the boom-boom of other critters. Even predators get eaten by bugs and vultures and
worms once they die. It’s the carbuncle of life.”
“You mean the circle of life?”
“Yeah, that too.”
Morgan tried a different tack. “But don’t you worry about the lack of transparency? A business that won’t tell you what it’s serving could be hiding anything. Or mistreating its workers. Or misleading its shareholders.”
Morvin nodded, looking crafty.
“So you think maybe EATUM is made up of shareholders ’n’ bad workers? An’ that it should be see-through?”
Morgan flailed emotionally. Her fingers fluttered in the air, a frenzied dance of digits. “No! But I still want to know what I’m eating!”
“Stuff that tastes good and sends your innards outward, hopefully. Ever since I made them my words to live by, I’ve found that meals sure are relaxing and enjoyable. I mean, unless I’m in a place where they are committin’ all sorts o’ blatant tater crimes!” His voice rose alarmingly at the end as he looked around for an employee who might hear his criticism and abruptly change their menu just to please him, but Morgan’s widened eyes let him know that perhaps he had given his passion a bit too much emphasis.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I guess I’m kind of a…tater enthusiast. The kind that objects to unnecessary dressing of the starches.”
“It’s all right,” Morgan assured him. “I happen to be uncommonly passionate about the evils of patriarchy.”
Shoobie returned with their kuffee and took their orders. Morgan was very careful to order a bacon and mushroom frittata and said, “That’s just fine!” when Shoobie warned her there would be an additional charge for bacon. Morvin asked for a huge plate of hash browns, “with no funny stuff added in or on top or hidden underneath, because I will be inspecting it most close-like, I do assure you.”
“Nothing else?” Shoobie asked.
“Nothin’ else but a side of EATUM. I’m gonna make sure at least some taters die with honor in this place.”
“How can a potato—” Shoobie blinked. “Okay.”
The frittata came out fairly burned and the mushrooms weren’t terribly fresh, but Morgan enjoyed digging in regardless. This meal was a hint at what life would be like outside the shelter of her parents’ demesne, and it wasn’t bad at all. There was just something comforting about extraneous grease.
“Parrrrdon me,” a raspy voice said. Morgan looked up from her plate and saw that the red-and-yellow parrot she’d spied earlier was now perched on the back of the booth, just behind Morvin’s right shoulder. It wore an eye patch, and its head was cocked so that its good eye was fixed on them, though the head made continual tiny jerking movements as it switched back and forth. “I don’t suppose eitherrrr of you gentlemen is looking for worrrrrk? Maybe a way to trrrravel south?”
“I am,” Morgan said. “What kind of work?”
“The acquisition and subsequent spending of trrrreasurrrre.”
Morgan smiled. So that’s what she’d heard earlier. This parrot was pitching everyone in the restaurant. “I’m listening,” she said. “Though I should tell you that most folks would consider me a woman. I just happen to have a beard. Does that matter to you?”
“Not at all! Not a bit. All hairrrr is equally incidental to me.” The parrot paused, making eye contact with Morvin. “Good sirrrr, may I perrrrch on your shoulderrrr if I prrrromise to be gentle?”
“Sure, make yourself at home,” Morvin said. “It’ll save me from lookin’ up and back. That kinda thing is heckin’ tough on a guy’s neck.”
The bird hopped down to Morvin’s shoulder and gingerly stepped around. It whistled and trilled with pleasure.
“Awww! This is a verrrry fine shoulderrrr! How did you get such muscles?”
“Workin’ on a farm all me life, mostly.”
“Excellent! Would you like to hearrrr about my offerrrrr of employment?”
“I’ll listen, sure.”
“Good good good good good!” the parrot said in rapid fire, its head bobbing up and down each time. “My name is Filthy Lucrrrrrre. On the seas, I am known as the Clean Pirrrrate Luc.”
“Hold on a heckin’ minute,” Morvin said. “Are you filthy or clean?”
“Oh, I assurrrre you I am a most dirrrrty birrrrdie,” Luc said, and whistled in amusement. “But people like little jokes, you know. You have hearrrrd about the Nice Pirrrrate Chuck? The Sweet Pirrrrate Crrrraig?”
“No.”
“Well, neitherrrr of them is nice orrrr sweet,” Luc said, “and my featherrrrs be the only clean thing about me.”
“So you’re a pirate captain recruiting a new crew?” Morgan asked.
“That’s rrrright. I know wherrrre the trrrreasurrrre is. It’s hidden on one of the Severrrral Macks. You worrrrk on my ship, you eat ship’s biscuits and drrrrink grrrrog, and then you get a sharrrre, and therrrre will be plenty.”
Morgan watched as Morvin polished off his large dish of EATUM, noting that it looked a bit like cat food. “You won’t be serving us EATUM on the ship, will you?”
The parrot blinked and shuddered. “Neverrrr! I don’t even know what’s in that stuff.”
“Right?”
“Exactly!” Luc whistled in triumph and pointed a wing at her. “You know what I mean!”
“Hold on a minute,” Morvin said. “If the treasure is in the Several Macks, why are you way up here in Borix?”
Filthy Lucre squawked and ruffled his feathers. “Loooong storrrry! I lost my shoulderrrr, though. Verrrry sad.”
“Your shoulder? Do parrots even have shoulders? You don’t look all lopsided, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so.”
Luc bobbed his head sadly. “I mean my perrrrch! My human. My firrrrst mate. You have such a good good good shoulderrrr, though. Would you like to be my new firrrrst mate? Therrrre would be a bonus sharrre of gold forrrr you.”
“Oh, that’s mighty kind of you, Luc, but I’m not much of a seafarin’ man. Matter o’ fact, only time I ever got on a ship I was yarkin’ the whole heckin’ time and I ruined a load of tuna, which didn’t please anyone. Naw, I reckon I’ll stay here and see if the Sullenne Sanctuary for Sulky Critters could use a man o’ my particular skills. Critters tend to like me for some reason, which is why I was pretty good around the farm.”
“Awwww,” Filthy Lucre said, and everything about him drooped, even his feathers. He looked so sad that Morgan teared up a bit herself.
“I’ll be your perch if you like,” she said, trying to cheer him up. Luc peered at her with a gimlet eye and considered.
“Nope! Too bony. I can tell from herrrre. But you arrrre welcome to join my crrrrew.”
“I’ve never been a pirate before. Do I need experience?”
He shook his head, his feathers ruffling. “I have crrrrew memberrrrs who can show you the rrrropes. Can you fight?”
As the Lady Harkovrita, she had been schooled for years by her father’s master-at-arms. “I have some training with the rapier,” she said, though she’d trained with more than that. In fact, she had more than that in her Chekkoff’s gunnysack, just waiting for the right moment to be of use.
“Fine. If ye like, be on the docks at high tide tomorrrrow. Rrrreporrrrt to my ship, The Puffy Peach.”
“The Puffy Peach? That doesn’t sound very threatening.”
“Well, neitherrrr does the Clean Pirrrrate Luc! That’s the point! Misdirrrrection!”
“Okay.” Morgan nodded at him. “Tomorrow, then.”
“Good good good good good,” Luc said, and turned his head to Morvin. “If you change yourrrr mind, you would be most welcome.”
Morvin nodded once at the parrot. “Thank you, Luc. You’re the best parrot I’ve ever met. I hope to see you again someday. Until then, I wish you well.”
“Awwww,” Luc said, and minced about sadly on Morvin’s shoulder, knowing it was time for him to l
eave but not wanting to. They waited patiently—especially Morvin, as those talons digging into his shoulder couldn’t be very comfortable—and eventually Filthy Lucre took wing and flew over Morgan’s head to visit the folks a couple of booths away.
“Parrrrdon me,” they heard him say, and then they grinned at each other the way people do when they’ve shared an unusual experience and they know it.
“You know what, Morvin? That never would’ve happened to me if I’d stayed home.”
“Cabbages and clams, Morgan, I reckon not! Ain’t every day you meet a bird like that what has a peachy plan to plunder the Several Macks.”
“Thanks for bringing me here.”
“My pleasure.”
Morgan dabbed at her beard with her napkin, dislodging a bit of mushroom and tasting the winds of change on her lips.
“What next?” she asked. “I have shopping to do—I know that much.” For pirate fashion insisted upon stripes, torn hems, and thoughtful combinations of navy, burgundy, and a color that swore it had once been white.
“And you’ll want to see the barber, you said.”
At that, Morgan bristled—figuratively and literally.
Did she want to shave?
She looked around the restaurant. The human men she could see appeared to be in a fight to the death over who could grow the most facial and body hair, and some of them obviously cultivated their look with ferocity and painstaking attention. She saw chops, sideburns, soul patches, spade beards, intricate braids, and beard rings. Mustaches were curled into loops, waxed to stand straight up, or left to hang down like spaghetti. On the other hand, all the women looked as if they spent an equal amount of time removing their hair. Their cheeks and chins were as smooth as babies’ bottoms, their unibrows ripped into separate, carefully trimmed caterpillars that made them look constantly surprised. Any ankle peeking out beneath a belled skirt was as bald as a naked mole rat but far less wrinkly.
Hairless, pretty, clean, strapped into gowns so tight they could barely breathe.