Squak, the grizzled warrior duck, waddled into the tavern on Cobblestone Lane, and hopped up onto a barstool. He gave the barkeep, a stout fellow both in heart and arm, a grimaced look as he lay his war axe upon the bar.
"Barkeep" he says with a graveled squawk," one bowl of porridge."
The barkeep, confused by this request, picked up a mug from wash tub, and began to dry it off.
"Beggin' your pardon sir, but you’ll have to take your axe off of my bar. This here's a bar for drinking, not for eatin'. If its vittles ye be after, I suggest Miss Linda lude's across the street. She's got the best vittles in town, and that's saying a lot." The barkeep Said.
The duck, weary from travel and the spoils of battle, simply sneered at him, grabbed up his axe, and waddled out of the bar.
It was half past noon the following day when the battle duck waddled back into the bar and hopped up onto the barstool. The barkeep was just putting up the new stock of mead when he heard a graveled grumble from over the bar. He peeked his head up to see, now standing atop the stool and peering over the bar at him, the seemingly angry duck, tapping a feathered finger on the blade of his axe.
Well, " grumbled the duck," let have some porridge then."
The barkeep stood slowly, as not to startle the War Mallard. He had a sinking feeling that the situation could turn messy at any moment. He had always dealt with rough and tumble adventurer types, but something about this duck just didn't set well with him.
"Oh, I'm awful sorry sir," he said wringing his hands just a bit, " but like I told you yesterday, if you remember, um, well... this here's just a bar for drinking. Miss Linda's got the food. Why, that was the bargain we struck way back when we was opening our businesses here in Helmstand. And, well, I'm sorry but unless you fancy a strong drink and a tale or two, then I don't see as I can help you."
A low growl began to seep from the duck, and he pointed a feathered finger right at the barkeep, and then shouldered his axe, and left the bar.
"I hope that's the last I see of him," he said to himself as he watched the war duck waddle out the tavern doors, "but somehow I doubt I have."
A loud belch came from an already sauced fellow who had been sitting next to Squaks. “That one's lookin’ fer a fight, I reckon. I reckon he’ll have one before the end.” he said before chugging the remainder of his ale and promptly ordering another.
The next day passed slowly, and the barkeep kept watching the door, expecting to see that duck waddle right in again. But he never showed up. That is, until the barkeep had just finished cleaning up for night, blown out all the candles, and was headed to the door to go home. That's when the battle duck flung the doors open, and waddled right in.
"Terribly sorry sir, but I'm just closing up. Be open again noon tomorrow." Said the barkeep anxiously. he would be open at nine, but he wanted a couple hours delay before dealing with Squaks.
"Round of porridge for everyone!" Squawked the duck and slapped the barkeep on the shoulder as he waddled past him and hopped up onto the stool.
This enraged the barkeep who, until now, had been trying to keep his gribbons about himself, so as not to seem impolite. He marched right back around the the bar and stopped in front of the duck, who was sitting and waiting with no expression at all.
"Now see here" said the barkeep, and he tapped the bar with his pointing finger.
"I've told you now the last two days where you come in here that we don't serve food. Not ever, not now, not never! Now I don't know where you get off coming in here and being all grumbled and growly at me, and now I have request of you, good sir. Do NOT come back here in my tavern and ask me for any more porridge or so help me I'll nail your webbed feet to this here bar!" And he slammed his fist down, making a hollow thud.
The war duck was unmoved and silent. The two looked fiercely at each other for several moments.
"Squaks very sorry. " The duck grumbled, and he hopped down, grabbing his axe, and waddled out of the bar.
The next day was busy, as the last day of the week usually was, and the barkeep was running around in a panic trying to keep up with drink orders and remembering which tales he was telling and to whom, as he was interrupted time and again with even more drink orders.
That was when the battle Mallard from hell waddled back in. As he hopped up onto the only available barstool, the barkeep cut his eyes at him and served a pint of mead to tall fellow in a long gray cloak.
There was a stiff silence for a moment as the two looked at one another in anticipation of the next move. A bead of cold sweat began to trickle down the barkeep's forehead.
"Barkeep," squawked the duck, "do have any nails?"
The absurdity was baffling. The barkeeps mind fizzled and sputtered for a brief moment, trying to postulate a reasonable answer.
"Well, um that is to say, no, sir, no we don't have any nails." Said the barkeep, taken aback.
The duck leaned in, stood just slightly on the stool, and asked,
"Do have any porridge?”
fin
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