I downed my whiskey and ordered up another one from the bartender. He looked at me hesitantly for a moment, until I growled, at which point he refilled my glass. I had been at the Black Hole for the better part of the day, drowning my sorrows. They say alcohol doesn’t solve problems. It doesn’t not solve them either.

The bar hadn’t been busy; only the occasional patron having come through. The bartender had tried to talk me up at first, but I wasn’t in any mood for company. My body language was hostile, even for me, and I would see his eyes dart nervously towards the lone bouncer at the doorway every now and then as he wiped the counter. I snarled to myself. That bouncer wouldn’t even be a good warmup.

I startled myself at my own tendency towards violence and turned that anger further inwards. I threw some republic credits down to cover my drinks, not wanting to make myself known as a capsuleer today by using our universal currency of ISK, and at the strong urging of my bladder, headed to the restroom.

I stumbled a bit through the door, feeling mildly lightheaded and disoriented, which sent a shot of adrenaline through my system as my body hated being out of control. I walked with an acute paranoia most days, always checking over my shoulder, always listening to my surroundings, always trying to be aware of my environment at all times. It was something the Republic military had drilled into me as a cadet and it had proven to be an invaluable skill time and again throughout my lives.

Once unzipped and flowing, I rested my hands against the wall in front of the urinal, watching the small ad screen come to life, selling products specifically geared towards to me. I hated how marketing technology knew exactly who was in proximity. It made staying anonymous a challenge at times. I scanned around the rest of the wall, glancing over the graffiti there, until my eyes rested on a small menu that caught my attention:

Cheeseburgers 3 RC
Handjobs 20 RC

After finishing up and washing my hands, I checked my wallet to make sure I had enough, then headed back out into the bar in a hurry, sitting at an out of the way table for two. The only waitress working at that time was incredibly attractive and made her way over to me.

In a lowered voice I asked, “Are you the one that gives the handjobs?” fully expecting to be slapped, or some other negative response. Instead, she looked around, then smiled coyly at me. “Yes, I am.” she said, her sultry voice sending tingles down my spine.

I sat up abruptly and spoke. “Good. Wash your filthy hands. I want a cheeseburger.”

—

Welcome to a new segment I’m trying out, “Tales from the Hole”, a series of random short stories all occurring within the lowsec Minmatar station pub The Black Hole. It’s my hope to not only author some of these stories myself but to have you submit yours to me at roc@rocwieler.com. Feel free to write about anything in this pub – gambling, dancing, music, conspiracy, crime, family dinner, anything you want. You can write about me or other players if you want, but please do so in a manner that is appropriate and doesn’t use them by name. It’s far more challenging to describe someone without using their name. It’s also good practice for improving your writing.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this short introductory story, and I look forward to seeing what you come up with.