Yershmin slams a palm down on the bar.
In the amber light he turns it over and peers at it myopically, a smile spreading on his face. The crushed remains of a vital and daring cockroach is puddled between the head line and heart line.
The bartender sees this. Yershmin can see his adam's apple bobbing.
"Well, it's the City, what do you expect?!" spat the bartender.
Yershmin doesn't stop smiling as he says, "Well, a simple call to the health inspector..."
The bartender is getting flustered, his eyes going to and from something from under the bar. Yershmin knows it is a nail-studded bat. He has seen it in action more than once.
They have forgotten about the form prone on the beer reek floor. The person called Nautilus stirs on the floor. A hand shoots straight in the air, long and slender.
"I'll pay," says Nautilus, " for your drink, my friend, if only one of you would help me up." Yershmin droops over the stool, extending an arm, his eyes turned greedily towards the glittering little gods of his life arrayed oh so beautiful on the shelving.
Finally erect, the booze moistened hairs on the back of Nautilus' head is splayed like the plumage of a peacock. He orders a neat whiskey and Yershmin goes for the quality gin.