A group of scoundrels sat together in the far corner of the pub, the sort of foul villains that good, normal folk would cross the county to avoid. Their laughter was wild and raucous, delivered alongside bad breath and through mouths with missing teeth. They wore long coats stained with mud, old boots and jeweled rings on their grimy fingers.
“As for me,” said one, “it was an unopened bottle of Islay single malt. What the old man was planning to do with it, I couldn’t say, but I certainly lent him a hand.”
Sitting next to him was an old man with long, stringy hair. “I can beat that,” he said. “It was a windy, dark night in November. I cracked the lid open and what did I find looking back at me, but a carved, wooden duck. This fellow brought his duck down with him—wonder if the duck agreed to that.”
The others roared with laughter.
A third figure at the table pushed her hat back, revealing a nasty scar that ran from ear to chin. “I reckon I’ve got you all beat. It’s been years now, but what I saw that night was something I won’t ever forget.”
“Oh, come off it, Ida,” said the first degenerate. “You’ve been saying that for years, but you never tell us what you saw. How are we supposed to believe you?”
