Success Story

The Bartender's Wisdom

The city of London is one where dreams come true - sometimes. One where anything is possible, but only for the few who can afford it. The rest dwell in poverty ridden depravity awaiting death or simple numbness from the life of crime created for themselves. Grell Sutcliff isn't one of those people. Despite having no money, no prospects and being of the underclass culture, Grell Sutcliff dreams of something very few ever attain in this city, a successful life. There's a catch - people like Grell can only hope to achieve such a dream through rising up the ranks of organised crime in the dingy London underworld. 

That isn't Grell's style. 

Grell Sutcliff is an elegant, classy individual who wants to be successful the legal way. Wants to get rich and make a name for themself as the anomalous success story from the slums to the skies. 

Grell wanders through the back-alley, their heels sinking into the grime on the streets, they'll have to wipe them off as soon as they get home. Puddles of varying colours threaten to soak their feet if stepped into, Grell treads carefully to avoid them. Reaching the crooked, hole-in-the-wall establishment, Grell descends to staircase to the (literally) underground bar. 

Years of bloodstains have left their impression on the stone floor. Grell can't even see past the thick smoke that hangs stagnant in the air. Formless shadowy masses hang around the bar and sit at the tables speaking in gruff, hushed tones. Grell wanders to the bar, claiming an empty stool. 

The bartender wanders over with a crooked grin and deep dark red scar the only facial feature visible beneath layers of floppy grey hair. He could be 18 or 45, all Grell can wonder about him is what colour his eyes are. Their own eyes are an interesting colour, lime green with flecks of lemon yellow - the perfect fit to represent their acidic tongue. "Aah, what a pleasure it is to see my favourite human," he greets with a spritely skip in his step. He's a lunatic, Grell has always known so. 

"Oh, but the pleasure is all mine," Grell sighs dreamily, eyes rolling up to the flickering red lightshade overhead. "Rose wine with a bruised cherry if you will?" 

The drink is already made, sliding over to them. Grell picks the cherry out first and consumes it in tiny nibbles. "Thank you, darling," They drawl as the drink gets put on their ever-growing tab. 

"My, what's troubling you?" the bartender frowns. Grell is usually such a lively person, depressive states of dreary lethargy doesn't suit them. 

"How could you tell?" Grell chuckles and crosses their legs, ready to lament their tragic crestfallen self-esteem. "I want to be rich and successful - don't you see? I want to be a phoenix risen from the ashes. And right now I'm an ant ready to be snuffed out by an ember. Dreams are made in the city of London, when was such a bold lie so accepted as truth?" 

"Within hearing distance of the church bells I was born - that must mean I speak in rhyming slang, but I do not," the bartender explains simply. Indeed, saying s and folklore mean nothing without the history to back them up. 

"But I want it to be true!" Grell wails with sorrow. Their coat tails drape onto the floor, they quickly gather it up and place it on their lap. "Tis my dream to be rich and famous. I want it! Even if London doesn't give it to me," 

"Why not follow the footsteps of everyone in here," the bartender gestures around wildly to each patron with barely concealed glee - everything seems to amuse the man though very little makes him laugh. "And use your talents of the trade to become rich and... well, infamous," 

"Because I want to do it legally, I want to be a supermodel and trophy, I want to be a fashion designer and an interior designer. Why would I want to be a criminal?" Grell frowns. "Tell me something barkeep. Why did you choose the life so many others have forced upon them?"