Smack-dab, in the Middle of Nowhere (Waste Stories #1)

5. A Taxing Problem (Part 1)

It was a bright new day in the Waste, and Can't Be Buried was looking as lovely and green as ever. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the little pixies were all holding hands and singing whilst they toiled away on the day's glorious work.

...

...

...and then whoever dreamt that woke up.

It was indeed a new day in the Waste, but to say Can't Be Buried was looking as lovely as ever would be like telling a Waste Beast it had a pretty smile. The sun was maybe shining, but the greasy, roiling smog still had it in a permanent chokehold. And if a sparkly little ray ever broke through, the smog would power slam it back into submission. Mind you, one might argue that the birds were singing, and some of the more intelligent gullpidgeons were actually very good at Puccini's Nessun Dorma (not that anyone knew what that was anymore, except maybe the gullpidgeons). However, the vast majority of the Waste's bird species - almost all carnivorous man-eaters - hung about the air in complete silence, waiting for an unwitting traveller to tie their shoelaces.

Now, near the bottom of a thick, towering mountain range, a little bar called Smack-dab was preparing for a brand new day.

"Phoenix!" Bert shouted, calling to the adventurer-turned-chef she knew would be milling about the kitchen at this time of morning. This yell was a very common way the day at Smack-dab began.

It took a few moments, but shortly Phoenix rested his arms and chin against the service window and peered through at Bert. His eyes were still groggy from sleep, his rough-cut hair sticking out at defiant angles. There was a bit of luminous green eye gunk clinging to one of his tear ducts, but when Bert glanced at it, it scuttled back into Phoenix's eye.

"Wassamattaboss?" Phoenix sighed, his voice still begging for five more minutes.

Bert pried her gaze off the man's tear duct and looked him in the eyes, frowning. "Why is table three still at table three?"

Phoenix cocked his head. "You lost me."

Bert sighed and shook her head, beckoning for the man to come into the room. He let out an audible grunt of dissatisfaction, but didn't dare say no to Bert. Shuffling on tired feet and wearing home-made fluffy slippers, the adventurer grumbled his way to stand next to his boss by the bar counter.

"Present and 'counted for, boss," he said, slapping his forehead in tired salute.

"Right," she replied. She spun him to face table three and pointed with her human hand. "Why is table three still at table three?"

She was asking because, sure enough, the two traders at table three were still sitting there. Now, this might not seem like that big a deal, it's a bar and eatery, right? People come to drink and eat, and then sometimes sleep, and then sometimes have breakfast. But the issue was, and Bert could not make this clearer to Phoenix, that table three had literally not moved a muscle since finishing their meal and drinks the night before. Literally. They were stalk-still, frozen in place in an upright position, their faces locked in a twisted look of confusion and minor aches and pains.

"Oh," said Phoenix.

"When I went to bed, Phoenix," Bert said, sighing once again, "I asked you to clear the bar. Surely you noticed them?"

"Weeell..." the man replied, scratching at his scraggly beard, still bearing dried brain matter from the day prior. "I saw them of course, but I reckoned they looked as happy as can be. I told them just to find their way to bed when they were finished, and then I went to sleep."

"And you didn't think that ... this, was weird?"

Phoenix shrugged. "One day we had a customer made entirely out of bees, you know?"