rathskeller
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George surveilled his domain, his little kingdom. It was not much, but it was his. A small, dingy room with poor lighting and even worse ventilation. Cigar smoke hung in the air like fog, and the smell of beer was always present. The sound of footsteps coming from the town hall came through the wooden ceiling, showing the evidence of the common man above them.
It was the kind of place no sane man should ever want to set foot in. And yet, all the tables in George’s little kingdom were filled with people in fine business suits. The waitresses, all pretty young things in skirts just tight enough to be interesting, wound their way through the place with practiced ease. The customers joked as they indulged in drink and smoke. Those were high quality affairs. George had people to please. The ambience might not have been much, but he prided himself on having the best product.
“Hey George, new booze?” Called one of his regulars.
“Sure is, Jack. Nice little upstart brewery on the coast.”
“Well, keep ordering from them! This is great stuff.” Jack said, raising a glass. This was met with approval from the other customers. George nodded. He always prided himself on picking out the best.
His customers talked and laughed. But then a small yelp reached George’s ear. It came from a table near a wall. A group of new customers sat there. George always welcomed new customers, so long as they listened to the rules of his kingdom. George frowned as he saw what had happened.
One of his waitresses had gone over for a little harmless flirting for tips. Everyone did it. All the customers knew it meant nothing but a little extra skin flashed every now and then in exchange for a few extra dollars. But this new customer seemed to not know this. He dared to lay a hand on one of his waitresses. In fact, the hand was still there, in a place where it had no business being. The waitress was clearly trying to get away, but the size of the room betrayed her.
“Hey, hands off the staff.” George said. His voice carried well.
The customer and his friends just laughed him off. George’s face creased into a frown.
“Last chance. Hands off the help.”
“Ah, get stuffed old man. I tell you what to do, you don’t tell me.”
George huffed. What an attitude. He was just glad that not all young people shared it. But he could not lament. He was the king here. And a king’s word must be obeyed.
“Alright, if that’s how it is, then you can leave. Get out of my bar.”
By now, all talk had ended. Everyone was looking at the youth. The young man scoffed.
“Did you just tell me to leave.”
“I did.”
The young man sighed. Then he reached under his jacket and pulled out a gun. “I’m sorry, but I think—”
He was interrupted by everyone else pulling out their weapons. All of them were aimed at the troublemaker. George moved slowly and reached under the bar. He came up with a shotgun. He did not even need to cock it.
“Get. Out.” He said. In those two words, he put all the weight of his authority. Outside the walls, his words meant little, but in here, they were as immutable as a mountain and carried as much weight.
The young man holstered his gun and clicked his tongue. “Beer here’s rotten anyway. Come on guys, let’s find a real bar.”
The man and his friends got up and left, heading up the stairs to the town hall proper. Eyes and guns were trained on him until the door closed. It was only then that peace and merriment returned. George nodded and returned his weapon. With the law upheld, all went back to normal.
To others, George might just be a bartender in a small beer hole under another, more important building. But to those who knew about it, it was a kingdom, and George was the king. And nobody went against the king.
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Of course this word would be German. The Germans have crazy words for damn near everything.
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